Sunday, March 14, 2004

But no more.

I have realized that writing will probably never reach some amazing peak for me, nor will it be enough to sustain me on a job-basis, as a financial-basis.

The more and more I look towards college, and the more and more I think about what it is, exactly, I'm going to do, the more I am confused as to the answer to this proliferating question.

When I was a child, I wanted to be a scientist. I wanted to be an Astrologist. I thought that the prospect of planets, and of the stars in the black sky, and of the moon, glaring, full in the sky, and of nebulae in the sky, I thought the prospect of these was so interesting. It was so interesting to think that on another world, at this moment, might live sentinent beings, intelligent beings, far more intelligent than we will ever be, far greater than we will ever be. My imagination would run wild. I would imagine what it would all be like, I would imagine how big the universe is and I wouldn't be able to put my hand on it.

But no more.

Then I wanted to be a Palentologist. I wanted to dig up dinosaurs. I was so interested in dinosaurs. I thought Tyranosaurous Rex, King of the Tyrants, was a beautiful, marvelous reptile to behold. I found it was interesting to look to the past, see what was and now what is, and see how it got here. I found it interesting to learn of the more inferior forms of us as human beings, and how we changed from one evolutionairy step to the next. I found Branchosaurouses to be interesting far beyond my imagination. How their long necks were able to reach toward trees, grasp hold of them, and obtain food. How I wished I could do that. How elegant and large they are. I found the prospect of dinosaurs so intrinsically interesting, so very for me.

But no more.

Then I wanted to be a Geneticist. I found the prospect of gene therapy to be of bondaging interest; I found the entire thought that with the ablility to manipulate genes, you could do some wonderous, interesting, mind-breaking things. I found my imagination would run wild with the thoughts of understanding these genes, of making a difference by doing my job. I thought that DNA, as it was, was the thing that made us what we are. That it makes a bitmap of us and that is what makes us, and that in each cell there is a strand, a helix, of DNA.

But no more.

I have realized that science is too full of certainty of precedures; that it is all about the scientific method, that it is all about numbers that mean nothing to me, that it is all about things I could care less for. I have realized that imagination, while it has its place in sciences, takes a long while to get fully realized when using ways of science. I have realized that I do not like science, the tried-and-true way it is ran, the procedured demur to it, the certain way it is to go. I find, rather, that I liked just learning the big picture. I did not like finding the smaller pieces of the picture and putting them together. I realized I was not destined for greatness as my parents told me. I realized that I was just like everyone else, and that I would live my life that way. I realized that I would not be a scientist.

As a child, one has nothing to worry about; and if there is something for one to worry about, it quickly passes, trivial, as parents resolve it for you. As a child, everything seems new and special, and you are told how great you are and will become. As a child, school isn't so humdrum, it is about doing projects, it is about learning things in a general know-how. As a child, everything is simple, and one has no clue how big, in actuality, the world is. As a child one has no concept of what is to become of them. They simply know they are loved, if they are, by their parents, and they simply go through their life. As a child all is childish, all is of the child, and the child does what it does.

But no more.

With augmentation, growth, comes new sight, new vision of what things are. With growth, you lose something to grow. When a plant grows, it loses water. When a child grows, it loses its imagination, it is likely; it loses its child. Its child dies and goes away. It loses that innocence. It recoils, and comes out anew through the process of growth. Roots begin wanting to set in, but there is yet no place to put these roots.

To grow. And to be bigger. To be stronger. Is it greater than being smaller, weaker, and not knowing the way things are? I would take being weaker, smaller, I would take that any day.

But no more.

But no more is such a simple phrase. It comes from the mouth to the air and is carried in sound waves and comes to the ears. It is read in the mind and the brain sends its signals here and there and gives meaning to it with what it knows. But this phrase has been the Phoenix of my life. From its ashes I come back to where I always was and always am and I find that I am, at heart, a child and will always be. I will not let it die.

But death is inevitable. I have seen plants wilt from its grasp on them, I have seen it finger them in the worst ways and cause black, dying disease. I have seen the sun, and I have read in books that it shall not last forever, that one day it shall, too, be touched by the hands of death, fingered and raped, and be gone. It will be gone: but no more. I have seen worms, after a fresh rain, outside on the cement, crawling, writhing, but most dead. I have smelled the smell of the worms, I have smelled their scent and I have found it reeked of death, of the semen of death as it has raped them, of the embryo death of death in them, always there, remote but now not.

I have seen wars, in the books I have read, and in the documentaries I have watched. I have seen the deaths of deaths of deaths, I have seen the lively die, their pallid, corporeal faces showing the inevitabilities of death, the way it grasps you.

And I have found I was afraid.

But no more.

We are taught to fear from the most earliest of earlies, we are shown to fear from the beginning's beginning. Fear the strangers on the streets, and do not let them do anything to you. Fear not locking your doors, for if one does not lock the doors, it is certain one thing will lead to another.

Fear. The palpable fear as a child is hoistered by the parent, held like an encompassing shell upon their lacerated shoulders. And one day it is handed over to the child, and that is when the child sees an echo, in the distance; an echo that is growth, that is change, that is something that cannot be stopped, that is something that is as inevitable as death, as life, as living, as dying, as going, as leaving, as being here. The child sees the reflection of what he is to become.

But no more. I see no more this reflection. I see myself amid chaos. And it is the chaos of choice, and action. Of carrying a weight and using the weight's inertia to push.

Many dreams have been murdered, and from the murders have came change. And of the dreams being reborn, I have yet to see the finger of death touch, but I feel its conveying hand reaching over, and I feel me fisting my hand into rhetorical finesse, into a fist that will not be broken upon. But not for long. And one day, but no more.

I have said that writing, a writer, is what I want to be. Looking at it in its face, I realize that is not what I can do if I am to be financially secure. I realize that I will have to either choose the venue of creative writing for my major, or I shall have to rethink, rework, and figure out what it is I am to do.

A great man, his name was John Lennon if you do not know him, said, "A working class hero is something to be." Indeed it is. Indeed it is. And in this song, many other things, many great things as to the way things are said are said. But eventually, no more.

Eventually I shall give up on adapted fighting. I shall put down my arms, my pencil, my brain, and I shall sell it away to the preposterous ambiguities of the ones who want it.

I see most of what is left of my child is imagination. There is something in me that still yearns to look upon the world in effect to its beauty. There is still part of me that looks in wonder at all there is to behold. But that side is a fool. A child is a fool, and a fool is a child at heart, a heart at a child.

I would rather be a fool. But it cannot be stopped, what has begun. The world seeks to make us all not fools, and to make us learned in its ways on us.

Writing is the child in me saying he is going to survive. I will keep doing it. If I could, I would escape from this vapid reality, and I would do what I feel I want to do. But, forced to do what this world says, I shall adapt on my ways.

I am in love with writing. But the love shall die like water evaporates from a puddle, leaving nothing but ground behind. I am in love with writing, but it shall die like childs die.

What will I do with my life? They say life is in your control, that one can steer it on any course. And they are wrong.

If I could steer my life, I would grasp this wheel and I would stop it, and I would settle down and do what I want to do. But soon, no more. Soon I shall quiet into the way of the world.

I accept what things are. But I do not agree with them.

I think I was alive once, that I was actually breathing. That into my lungs there went air, free air, and that my heart beat to my own. I think that I was alive once, I was seeing with my own eyes, and seeing things like they are. But I think that I have died. I have been suffocated by the way time wrangles you. I think I am at a half-life, and at a momentary lapse of reason.

I believe I was once a maggot. That I sucked the dead tissues. I sucked from the things that were dying, and they sustained me because they wanted to see me go on and continue the status quo, the way things are, how things go. And I sucked too much blood, I was too nauseous of my eating. And I changed, I changed into a fly. A fly.

If I am a fly, and I am growing each and every day, and I am alive, then why does it appear that I cannot see, that I cannot fly, for that matter? It is common knowledge that a fly can fly with his wings. But my wings, they cannot fly. I cannot fly.

I was once alive. I was once a maggot. I was once a child. I was once stupid. I was once ignorant. I was once innocent. I was once happy. I was once something more. I was once in bliss. I was once a leech. I was once a mosquito.

But no more. Now I am that and too much more. Too much more.

Where I will end up is where I will end up, and when I am is when I am.

I am down in a hole and I am down where I belong.

I shall dig my way out. But I do not know what I will do. I do not know what else there is on this entire earth to do other than writing. Writing is everything to me. Just writing and I is everything. Writing is my lover and we kiss. I like writing's lips, they are so full of meaning.

Suffering ceases to be suffering when there is reason to the suffer.

I suffer for you, writing. I suffer for you.

One day I may suffer for another, and we may suffer together.

When there is reason to suffering, then that is when you have incentive. And with incentive, that is everything. Without effort it all goes nowhere. It goes on a downward spiral.

I suffer to suffer and I please to please. And I fall down to fall down. And I bleed to bleed. And on my knees I am on the ground.

Where I shall be is where I am found.

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