 |
Dear exisle, Out of the growing sense of urgency comes the will to fight back. There you may have the key to this maze ¬ I've watched you sitting here day after long day, in front of this unimaginative box of electronic chips, struggling to define a space _ and proclaim a path in this space _ for yourself, for your soul, for what made you decide to spend your life toiling to create art instead of machines ¬ I've seen you crumble, progressively, your face twitched in agony, as you run into the towering walls that at once surround you in and keep you out ¬ I've seen you pull yourself up _ scaling the walls, leaving a trace of blood in your wake _ to reach the windows, the holes, far up and force your way through to the other side only to find another wall risen before you, higher than the one you just climbed ¬ I see you presently struggling with yourself over every word that you write _ feeling that each one becomes a wall as soon as it is materialized in the sequence of keys your fingers press; finding an excuse every few minutes to leave your station _ now to fetch a glass of water, now to close or open the window; but always coming back, positioning yourself before the keyboard, lighting a cigarette and typing a few more words ¬ I see you convincing yourself that you don't want an answer, not now, not at this moment, to the question that always lurks in the shadows of your mind; that first, foremost existential question, that So What? which cripples you so often ¬ I see you standing in the vast darkness of this nightmare, trying to rekindle that sense of urgency which brought you to this point, fueling it from your endless solitude, to light your way ¬ Your ancestors worshipped fire in rituals of purification. Let the urgency be your fire and the agony of your work your ritual ¬ |
| ||||
|
| |||||
 |
||||||