Thursday, August 20 of 2020, 30 minutes past midnight.
I often joke about forgetting the reasons or motivations for my creativity, but my current inability to compose long, coherente passages is a reflection of a personal pathology I need to address now. It’s an invisible affliction caused by poor focus on me and the meditations necessary to confront the issues important to that same subject – a problem brought about by improper thought.
It has taken weeks of depressive solitude, of ignoring family and friends, to see this more clearly; and months of self-destructive behaviour to see the need for that depressive solitude. It has taken this long to allow myself to regress to my mean of power.
Nevertheless, I am here now basking in the glory of a profound memory – that I CAN fly – and the familiar realisation that the worst and most powerful monster I have or will ever command is my own mind.
Control may be an illusion, but it’s one that beckons us into moral and intellectual responsibility, which are the roots of power.
Onwards, and as the devil me would say: yes…