#alone #prosepoetry #intrinsicfire #imminentnightfall




I sit alone in a room watching a pink-grey sunset and thinking of Van Gogh.  All that passion he possessed and then to die as a failure.  Reading his letters to Theo I get the deep sense of despair he felt.  I think I comprehend though I know the reason for this relation.  I, too, have lived the life of failure.  I, too, have become a wretch on society; a man beneath contempt.


The sun is still setting though I am idle.  In my heart, great passions do roar.  I am a coward but I muster the courage to admit it to myself and everyone else.  I am useless; perhaps pathetic but I am enjoying the moment.  I look out my window at the sky coloured by the imminent nightfall.  Trumpet sounds softly; saxophone sings sweetly.  The taste of sweet wine is highly anticipated.


In my wasted life; my unfulfilled potential I recognize my youth and its passing.  It is despair I feel yet there is still faith.  There is faith that the records of these travails, however weak, shall have meaning.  I feel the wind and the heat.  They shatter my reality but I can not be defeated so easily.


In my soul, I am a lion.  In my heart, I am an eagle.  Is there any use in that?  I do not have answers.  I merely question the wisdom of the sun.  It sets and brings the night.  And in its darkness shall I brood my shortcomings and failings.


The aspired greatness may have passed but the intrinsic fire is still burning.  My thoughts are not clear.  My imagination is stymied.  The failure is accepted but the work persists.  The raging fire in my heart burns on.  My body does not move in spite of my ambition.  I am weighed down by self-doubt.


I drink water and wine but the fire does not subside.  Perhaps it can’t.  It just seems that Prometheus may not have helped me much.  He left me a great tool but didn’t leave a pamphlet with instructions.  I guess my fingers & my mind will have to be burned to figure it out.  Is that the plight of the artist?  I struggle to retain my grip on the pen.  My hand hurts.  My mind aches.  I’m still thinking.  I’m still writing. . .



Author's Notes/Comments: 

My Rimbaud period which is somehow less inspiring than Pablo's Blue period.

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