For those of you who wish to skip the self indulgent prattle that follows, you may proceed on to Godless Avatar page 1. This was not the original purpose of this post, but I felt I had to do something to counteract the carp I did five minutes ago.

The problem of my cryptic handwriting is solved by the description box. Questions, comments, and thwaps upside the head can be left below. I utterly and completely suck at scenery of any sort, and I still don't like Painter for much of anything except maybe the watercolors, which I wouldn't actually color anything with. I'd just mess around and then return to photoshop, or as I have more and more lately, Open Canvas. OC is much, much nicer to work with, even if it isn't quite as versatile as photoshop.

Keep in mind that whatever ends up in deviantart is something of a rough draft; things like panel order and page composition may change at a later date. It isn't likely, but it's possible. I'm really just saying this to cover my ass over the fact that it sucks.

Now back to our regularly scheduled pointless babble.
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...it seems as if the whole world is against me at this point.

Or rather, as if blogger seeks to send me into an epileptic fit or some sort of hypochondriac shock; all day I've had words running free and careless and demanding within the confines of my skull, and now, here, when I try to explain them away, the thrice bedamned program spits them back at me.

Should I feel stung by this rejection from a mindless program? Should I feel demeaned and affronted?

I think I'll settle for mild annoyance and hope it doesn't happen again.

The poetry threatens to overwhelm me; I've no idea what brought on this sudden diarrhea of the mind. Messy, uncomfortable, and inconvenient in every way possible, that's what this is. I spent the better part of an hour on a bench in the sun with a pen, and my fingers have the inkstains to prove it. In the writing I found nothing that I did not already know on various and sundry levels; I can no longer tell when I'm being profound and when I'm being banal and trite.

The words flow without reason, without purpose. There is no meaning to anything, and there never was; we simply are, and at the moment I am defined by the words because there is nothing more to me. I am what I write, I write what I am. If that is meaningless, so be it. I can live with that, I can be joyful over that. I can be.

Fiat. I spent the better part of an hour discussing the concept of Fiat with myself. Not the little Italian car (I will not succumb to the urge to free thought here; there will be no associations, or I will lose what little self I have left) but the word itself: Let there be. Fiat lux, fiat nox, fiat nos. Fiat. And god spoke, and there was, and it shall be.

I do not believe in the deist concept of the ineffably apathetic watchmaker. God is a gardener, and we flourish within the bounds of its garden.

I don't mean to sound overly...religious. That's a dangerous word, one that I have yet to define within the neat boundaries of classroom and the strained realms of my heart and mind. I don't mean to come across as a starry eyed new age mystic, either. They're only words. They give things life, they make things real, but in the end they are only words.

Their power lies in their ability to stir belief; and lo, it leads us to the shaking of our beliefs until we can no longer believe what was once believable; instead, we must believe the unbelievable and content ourselves with more complex joys.

Words, words, words. Shakespeare had it right, maybe. Or maybe he had it written right and was not actually right himself within the rites he enacted and maybe I'm not writing about anything at all.

Maybe I never have and maybe I never will and maybe 'maybe' is the most powerful word of all, that ambiguous dual syllable of a word.

We drown ourselves in maybes and forget to breath what is.
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I have a folder in my email account where I save emails from all the people I thought I might have bee in love with. It is titled, uncreatively enough, 'amo'. I was clearing out my inbox the other day and found emails from someone I might have loved, did love- someone whom I will never see nor hear from again. I didn't touch them; they belonged in the other folder, out of sight and out of mind, but clicking that little box would've brought me too close to temptation. Rereading them would destroy me, deleting them would do even worse.

But as long as I leave them there, they will remind me, and that is perhaps no less deadly. These are things I will have to face, someday. I'm sure I'll face them in the end, by averting my eyes.
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Words, just words, and I've no idea where they've come from nor where they wish to go. All I can do is write and hope to exhaust my fingers and my mind. A momentary pause brings it all to a screeching halt, but does not alleviate the pressure upon my soul.

I still can't tell the difference between a profundity of profound statements, or a proliferation of trash. All I know is my grammar and vocabulary become increasingly expanded and archaic. I fear that in the end I will be so obsolete as to not even understand myself.

Of course, that eventuality came to pass long ago, but it's a fragile falacy that I like to cling to despite the truth.
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