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Ive been called morbid. Its a goth fad to be morbid. But true morbidity does not always show itself in the dark negative that it is popularized to be. In fact, to be morbid is to dwell on the moment of one’s or anyone’s death. Ive been, as of late, in close association with the notion of one’s death. What of the thereafter and such. I have no reason to fear it, as fearing death only means that they hold no hope or faith in something more than nothing. No, I do not forlorn the notion that I will burn in hell. (As hell is a Platonic notion created to inspire fear in the plebeians.) But to surmise I may have a hope, if I remember our creator in my limited years. That is to be presumptuous of me however. I pray that I am not a complete loss to my God. But that after this ill begotten corporeal mass of mine has transpired, I shall be granted that second chance to do right to my fellow mankind. My brothers and sisters.
The length of his days shall not pass 1 day.
In one thousand years how will we be remember if at all. Those artists of the past, circa 1012 AD, are they known today? And if so, what are they known for. Oh, you say you don’t know any from that time period? That’s because they are forgotten, only to be remembered as part of a culture of peoples marked by their remains.
Do I expect to be remembered, no. In fact, I hope that most of what Ive done, in so much as my worldly pursuits are forgotten and separated from what our culture is to be remembered for. My misanthropic, amorphic ideas that are scrawled across paper and said to mean nothing. Honestly it doesn’t amount to anything more than what anyone else can do when they work hard at it. I dream fantasies that are easily passed over. Even if I ever did write that epic novel, what would it amount to but a means to money in my pocket. I don’t believe in artist that sell out. They are all doing exactly what the world expects, earning a living. That notion of my halcyon days of past, where we dreamed of a pure world of emotionally driven art. Engaging the viewer in a similar fantasy. Ive found my niche now in this world of engineering and dry anti-art that only engages the people that know how to read an electrical schematic, because it pays. I expect to be forgotten, infact I certainly hope I am not remembered as a driving part of this societies aspirations.
When I die, I need someone to burn all my art.
Why can I not do it myself. Perhaps its because Im still attached to it. Perhaps its something that I need others to think about. The things we create in this world, are they something that others will consider with implicit value. An epitaph to read, what was created was merely carbon dust, and so it should return such.
Depression besets us all, perhaps if one day I actually create something beautiful, I wont put my name to it. Ill just say… created by the inspiration of another. Perhaps we should all pass it along like that. Not with our name, but something up buidling that will inspire beauty and positive growth in others. Thus far, what I see in my work is not that. This isnt me cutting off my ear, but if I die, I sure hope I wont be remembered for such.