Current of Consciousness
Some or even most of you are probably wondering where I’ve been for the past two weeks. My posting frequency has been eclipsed by the ever silent Justin, and for that I apologize. Normally this would mean I have been lazy playing videogames or otherwise frittering away my time. On this particular occasion, nothing could be further from the truth. For the past week, I’ve been busily hacking away at a Django app which will serve as the launchpad for my Webfic based on the Kildosphere mythos I’ve been slowly accumulating in my addled brain. Many late nights into the wee hours I have toiled, trying to get the system functional and fully cached. Though the result is still in need of work, and I likely need to tweak the design, I have reached a final product worthy of unleashing upon the unsuspecting populace.
It has begun. Kildosphere.com is now the launchpad of my fledgling writing career. Though I’ve been delaying this for countless years because I didn’t feel ready, that all changes tonight. I can’t say why, and I’m unable to fully explain it, but I feel consumed by the rightness of this. Some is driven by my continual uncertainty of my heart’s long-term viability, but ideas have been coming fast and steady for the past my entire life and it’s time to inflict them on others. Further explanation is needed here, and I’m more than happy to oblige.
I’ve never had a nightmare. No, I really mean it. I’ve never woken up screaming, crying for my mother, or feared sleeping for the undulating beasties and scenarios that so terrify the young. Maybe it’s just that there’s nothing in this life that scares me, or at least since I was about six and a half. My impending surgery and its final impact was silent like thunder, so resounding was the implicit boom across my psyche and my future. Instead of unsettling dreams, I’m presented with pictures and adventures from seemingly endless realms which are as diverse as they are congruent. Each of these dreams is almost always worthy of at least a short story, though some are better than others. But somehow I know that this will all start with Rabbit Rue, a dark poem from a dream I had three years ago, of which I still remember the first stanza as it was written in the yellow and curled notebook of my reverie.
These dreams have answered many of my questions of late, even possibly revealing the meaning of life itself, though I don’t fully grasp the idea just yet. I am practically buried in storylines, and at least four books are intricately linked to each other and encompass a wider theory that will likely remain a thread deeply woven into everything I produce forevermore. Thus will the unknowable be revealed: by allegory, hyperbole, metaphor, and meandering euphemisms.
I’m obviously not the Best Writer Ever, but I’m good enough for now. I’m a little rusty, but as I practice this art, I’ll undoubtedly improve. I’ve always written, on and off, since I was 11. But now it’s going to be my night job, as much as I can manage. Eventually I hope to give up my day job entirely, and then I shall be truly free. Something has awoken inside me, and I am utterly incensed. It’s as if I’ve consumed a Muse whole, with all that implies. It has begun, and hopefully will never end.