Feeling the Air; not dead, quite yet at least...

 Pretentious though it may seem to title this post in that way, but even I'm a bit taken aback as to how long it's been since I've last added any content to this page. It's been nearly five god damned years since I actually posted something. I will put it simply as to why (I think) there's been a dearth of new content. I have had chronic, years-long writer's block for the past several years, particularly since I began daily doses of sertraline medication. I had, and still have panic disorder and the medication has helped to keep relevant episodes at bay (it seemed like with each consecutive panic attack, the symptoms got more concerning, even frightening), and I suspect that this therapy has played a part in my struggle with writer's block.

Infrequently I have had some creativity bleed through the melancholy, but hardly ever enough to break that block completely. Until this Monday of an evening, where I was inspired to write a passage in prose and share it right here. I intend for this to be part of a whole, but as for following through on this endeavor, that's up in the air. 

Without further ado...

At Once, At Length

Consider the following fact: when an individual who is wracked with pain (of the physical sort) throughout their entire person, their limbic system is likely to kick in, for lack of a better phrase, to facilitate a temporary state of bliss. So why then, in my case, does this process not transpire in defiance of a literal cascade of immense pain? I have tried numerous avenues of escape from this state of being, including self-inflicted dermal injury, and quaffing an unknown volume of opioid. Alas, I am as yet deprived of a much-desired reprieve. I suppose the only viable course of action to take would be to immerse myself all at once, at length in the sanguine depths concealed mere meters below my ancestral home. It couldn’t hurt to consider, given its success in achieving states of higher being on previous occasions. I will notify the attendants of my desperate intent, whose indentured duty is to oversee the crimson basin (normally carried out by means of flagellation of the said-same attendants), but that’s a formality as far as I am concerned.

Alone With My Craft; "Erosion" Anthology Preview

I sit here with my pen, once again at my side. All of those whom I’ve considered a friend have left me by my lonesome. The pen is all that I have left. And without fail, every single time I write, it jots down the characters I desire with nary a protest or question. Should the mood strike me, I can, with this pen, smite those who have wronged me or wish to do me wrong; if my thoughts descend into the darkest, deepest reaches of the abyss, the pen will not cower or fight the will of my motions. It is ever abiding—its ink records my thoughts and my fantasies, my fictions and experiences, as it should do. For that, which is to serve the literary artist, is its very purpose. Unfailingly loyal to me: my pen will never lie to me or abandon me. I feel safety and comfort in it knowing these aspects of the object.

Yet still I find myself missing the nuances of human interaction. An object of no whim or pulse of its own cannot replace the intricacies of the soul. Yes, I’ve come to know the greatest pains and sadness having had contact with my fellow man, yet, my works on the page—my craft of literature has derived all of its inspiration from those very interactions and experiences. And sometimes it is necessary to have the ego of another mind challenge your own. So here I am, alone with my pen, and my craft is, as I have come to realize, doomed to dry out. My inspiration is limited now. No companionship or strife means I may not know what to put to paper any longer. Such is perhaps the only net positive of coping with the many angles of life’s experiences.

The sharpness of the pen shall close this book for now. I think I will go for the neck; deep and precise, and most importantly, the pain will be as quick & brief as the swiftness of a fox. Alone with my craft, this will be the very last gift my pen will give to me.

Bonded; Father & Son

I've written a lot of material over the summer, which I admit I could have shared here. I didn't. But that changes today. Here's the latest addition to that line of work, finished just a few minutes ago.

'Anchor' Mini Project

I'm kind of on a roll, here. I guess that's what happens when you listen to music that really touches on something you hold close to your heart.

https://drive.google.com/open?id=1gNRdc02wcRuwWTUxba-0YkGHX8auIlHp

Like the previous project, it is watermarked.

Edit: Increased transparency of watermark; changed a few lines, added a new one.

Dimming - Mini Project

Well, I've finished a project in one sitting and it's all finished, ready for sharing.

https://drive.google.com/open?id=1u_KlHYNHJLgNsbneAjxYdrFqkBeU2X6g

It is watermarked.