Fears

This blog is like my little cave, my little hole-in-the-wall where I'm supposed to say what I want. But there are too many personal things I never say, even to people I have confidence in. As I'm writing this, I'm beginning to feel the therapeutic effect of blogging (a kind of catharsis, a purging of self, something I've last done in high school), sort of releasing everything into this entry, my quiet fears. My craft is failing. My art cannot keep up with the insights of my mind, and I cannot fashion what strikes me as beautiful into something beautiful. For the past few days, I've felt a falling out (with people, places, dreams, etc) which I fear may be permanent. What I have to say, and I'm saying this in confrontation with myself, is that I fear, during law school, or even after, that my writing will never return to me the way certain persons will never return to me. I am dying. I will die earlier than what is expected of me. I will not be remembered. Creative writing as a form of mitigating my neurosis, I fear, is being replaced with the power I can garner through law (when I know that the illusion of power does not erase the fact of death). Which leads me to confess: I write to be remembered. I do not believe in God. The universe is beautiful, but all I have are my words. There is nothing to see here, always nothing to see (and this I hope to change with writing; I hope to be seen; I'm a very stubborn person and you can't fucking change this about me.). Experience tells us there is no love, only angst, only revolution. Experience tells me that there is no more happily ever after because Satan has fallen out of grace. I will never be able to love again because I think too much (which is a fuckload better), and this is my only blessing. Thought is the salvation of the thinker/poet as well as his/her disorder. And poetry is the easiest and cheapest therapy there is.