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.
Greetings,
ReplyDeleteThank you for this.
I refuse to believe that you (whoever this may be) are a failed artist.
All good wishes,
robert
If you didn't destroy the world, I guess you are a success. After all, if you were once a danger to the universe but didn't blow up the planet, yay for you.
ReplyDeletehttp://joycelansky.blogspot.com
still have time to succeed by changing your thoughts!
ReplyDelete@robert&Joyce&Annmarie: Well, I am afraid all three of you esteemed readers have thoroughly missed the point of this post. It was merely an abstract fictional account and was only meant to be enjoyed as such.
ReplyDeleteGreetings,
ReplyDeleteI thought, as I read it, that it might have been as you described. Nonetheless, my comment stands as a response to the abstract man.
All good wishes,
robert