provenance: unknown

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Agony of realization

Agony. Agony and despair. Canst avoid them? No. Disillusionment is hell. Mediocrity excruciating. Failures, inevitable.

I am torn, momentarily I hope, by a fit of self-judgment. Standards, I say — I must have standards. All this crap, my god, how can I stand it?

It is a dilemma, self-publishing. Write I this for me, or for you? For me, ha ha, bug off! No, no, I lie, I write for me, but I publish for you! Stay, listen, read! It's all for you!

And so, crisis. Conflict. Doubt is not good for art. Creation needs presumption. I must pretend I am any good. Just think, if I can fool me, maybe I can fool you, too!

I am no good at fooling me. I see everything. I must look away. I must not think. Thou shalt not.... I need religion. Religion of me. No wonder artists are all crazy. Am I crazy? Alas, I am only foolish.

I stand at the foot of a great and glorious mount. It towers impossibly high, and my neck is only so strong, my sight only so keen. I dare not look toward its peak too long, I will lose what glimpse I've yet had. But some nights, my falls and stumbles do pierce and rudely puncture my unexamined dreams of ascendance, and my resolve weakens. I don't like all this work. Am I there yet? I want to go home.

This is all true, but it is a lie. I presume, but I know I presume. It is calculated presumption. I am pretending.

So, I ask, forgive me. All this, I write it for me. I am greedy and selfish and have no right to presume. Publishing is a conceit.

February 24, 2002 2:05 AM

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