Angst

I will stand in the middle of this hall, and I will compose a piece of music, and I will perform it, and I will fall in love with it. I will then be in love with that piece of music. The people on the left will applaud out of awe, commending the skill and the musicianship, and the poetry of my soul to have been moved so by a piece of music. The people on the right will applaud out of pity, because to them I will appear a shell of a man who could not find a real person, so constructed a neat little relationship with a piece of music that was his own creation.

These people will go on into the future from the hall, and harness in their minds the idea of having dedicated an evening to a narcissist, while the others will stay put for a while, soaking in the glory of the glory that was here shortly before. They will then step out in full uniform to endorse an ideal they just discovered, and spread his message to anyone who would listen.

I will go backstage, drink my weight and smoke half of it, because I am a man capable of many loves, and one of these is the love of clichés. I will then go on down to the basement that is my home and I will stare at the ceiling all night as I slowly sober up, and then hopefully, around dawn, I will pass out for a couple of hours. I will wake up in a pile of my own sweat and sheets that seem to have an agenda of their own. I was a narcissistic idol a few hours ago, and right now I am barely a man with half an ego.

Sometimes the pitiful come across as great, but it doesn't work the other way around. There is only so much one can achieve with self deception. Plus, there is hardly ever any motivation for the great to be delivered as pitiful. Unless they’re dead. Then everybody wants to get a piece of the ugliness to sell on EBay and associate themselves with the inner workings of the fallen. Sometimes it’s hard to not see sadism as inherent of the human condition of being. That’s why there are pop stars and butterflies. To give the audience a short interval before resuming the idol burning.

I was once in the middle of a pit, I think I had slid into it when it was still dark around, it was near a highway, I think, near the intersection that leads you to the town with the pretty people in one direction and the whorehouse in the other. There was very little to see, and it seemed like the walls of the pit were made of clay. I decided to carve a woman out of the wall closest to me, since there was little else to do till day break. I worked on her for a long time, but as day came, i saw it wasn't really clay I was molding, just mud that seems malleable in the dark. With the first light and the fresh wind, the woman started disintegrating, and before the sun had risen successfully in its entirety, she was already buried into the ground, made of more mud. You could see the traces of what was intended to be a face and breasts, but it was as if it had been rearranged to resemble modern art, the likes of which are sometimes received very well if presented correctly. I was just trying to build myself a woman. Then they came, dragged me out, saw the heap of collapsed woman parts made of clay, and the next day they put it in the paper as one of the finest pieces of art to have been witnessed in this century. They mentioned my name in the last line, it was strange, there must be so many people with that name, they must’ve all felt a strange something crawl down their spine as they read that article, being called a genius on account of nothing but the fact that they share a rather common name with a rather average, if not below average, person, while the creation in question is incredibly questionable, although no one realises that. People see what they want to see. Then why couldn't I see a woman?