Rambling Voices

Categories: General, Writing
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Published on: August 7, 2015

And the words come at a flow, a pace that helps me remember why I write. Open cool transference of thoughts to characters, and situations unknown, discovered through the exploration of the mind. And maybe I am trapped, and maybe we are all trapped, but there is a way to freedom. There must be a way to the free spaces, the places in between that define the world we know. Exist in the places between, the space outside the known, and lose yourself in it only to discover that you need to return to the definition in order to know that you’re mad—and the artist says no, there is no madness, there is no sanity, there is only the zombie automaton and freedom, and both are crazy, and both are deadly, and so the artist continues, lost in the meandering dark of the other side of the glass, seeing you as her reflection, wondering what’s wrong with herself, and she turns the mirror around and staring at its back, doesn’t see the difference, and laughs, and feels better, and the artist continues, because the artist isn’t just visiting the other side, the artist lives here, and the artist knows a secret that he cannot share, and the artists that have returned with secrets are charlatans, because an artist can never go back as anything other than an entertainer, and the artist knows the void obscures, knows that no one may ever find him here, but the artist is here anyway, because—and this is what the artist says—“I am not defined by your experience of me,” and so the artist disappears. -Gnomish Explorer

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