There are always a couple of revelations that come crawling back into mind when dealing with a world not all too real. Some of which is the typical self-loathing path most unoccupied brains will take. Others require constant self-deprecation to fully flesh out a beast rode time and time again.
That revelation is creativity. Where it remains and how it co-exists with precedent discoveries. And in brutally ravaged truth the world is is seemingly full of faux pretenders. Grifters bent by whim of a carnivorous environment sold to monetary need.
In actuality a creator is nothing more then a visionary mime. One that mimics actions, decisions, and life as we know it until the pencil breaks. A rather pretentious and slick operator called onto stage to deliver one memorable line before the curtains prevail. And when the cast light darkens the scribe waddles back to the mines. Again forever stuck in obscure reference.
But I was not trying to paint such a dilapidated picture. The scars where the pencil scratch and eraser met were not to be examined just because. Things of this nature are rather abundant and I am no Shakespeare. To be was never quite my repertoire.
With so many words I've lost being pertinent to the subject at hand and digressed a tale from amidst the rattling bobble that resides inside my head. What then do I wish to imply?
These things I've tried have not went as planned. Like an ocean caught inside a hurricane I am tremulous with rise and descent. And try as I may to steady my hand I wobble towards the railing looking over as the water continues forever on.
I am many things. I am many truths. I am many lies.
But it seems that the rudder has been warped by time letting my vessel float needlessly forward as the dreams mount and the rays pelt.
I am but a man.
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