Much as the Devil would like me to believe otherwise, this isn’t somebody else’s head on my body in the picture. I have lived for real, a life of noisy dismay, good old days when I complained of a worldly disorder getting hold of everything around me, while at the same reveling in it.
I am now 70, an old man and a failed artist; looking back and failing to realize how I got here, failing to point down a single thread of destiny out of the unseen thousand and say this is what failure looks like, what leads most of us to it eventually.
Old age gives you plenty of hours of dreaming; sleeping or awake, it’s always a dream. I long for the days of disorder, the days when I could bring down the mountains; an angry artist doing things slap-bang, who once inspired to paint God Himself, fell down off his own vantage point, and never felt a thing.
Every living man was once a danger to everything that exists in this universe.