The East

And my friend asked me, “from where did you learn to write?” I do not know, and I pondered and pondered…

The seed of a thought, planted in my mind, nurtured with the waters of introspection, sprouting and growing and developing into a tree of knowledge, from which I pluck the fruit in this piece.

And I am so enemy-driven!

But, I cannot appreciate a man, or a thinker, or a writer—and I read to understand to find a flaw in the structural weakness, a thread upon which I may pull and pull, in order to unravel the entire soul, thoughts and emotions loose and dissociated, that I may weave into a pattern of my own.

And I read Plato to admire him, then to understand him, then to discard him, wasted corpse of a soul, another body in this vast graveyard of my mine, carcass rotted, bones bleached white and pearly. Thus, did I the same for Tolstoy, and Dickens, and the literary “giants” of our race, who wrote pages and pages—and in one thousand words, do I say all they say, and more, and less, and who am their master and Lord.

For, if you must either forget or forgive, it is better to forget and never forgive, and to let each offense to your highest of artistic sensibilities burn and burn, for years and months and decades, until you look upon them with fire in your eyes and Hell in your soul, and claim them for your collection of villains vanquished and conquered.

Nothing can feed this most lustful of appetites!—but after I feed, and I feast properly, must I make each piece a dance, provide a second melody as did Bach in his counterpoint, and give the reader something to work with, for in this my violent spirit, I am unique.

So, we turn to a new enemy—a common theme must pervade each work—and I look upon this Earth and gaze and wonder, who is next for this ravenous beast I call myself?

Let us choose the East, Buddhist wonder and oneness and cosmic spirit. Do you discard yourself?—very well, then I shall take him and claim him for myself, because I shall love him, if you do not, and I shall wear him your identity, if you choose not.

What is silence, and is it profundity?—but, in profundity is some silence, not the other way around. What, could you be silence and folly, and speak up once—but to err!

This fear, I have not, for I live each day as though it were my last, and you, each day as though it were your first, and I am the man and the wise, and you are my child. Say something, anything, oh, I dare you!

And I shall say something, everything, and I shall make it dance and sing, for in me lives Bach and the music of God, and I am touched by Heaven and blessed, and nothing you do shall compare.

So, to you and the East, does the near future belong—and if I am the last man of the West, then let our tradition end strong, the cumulative wisdom of millennia of thought and emotion and controversy.

I am the King, the prince, the man!—and may God bless us both, sons of the same Father.