The Artist in Question

A send-off of the significant self. I will create no longer. "He" was killed and the blood splatter is captured here across the memoir's pages. What is paginated within were inceptive ideas I treated once as my own, as my conceptually-born children. Too young to die, I drowned them in the ink of the page followed by the severing of that person in me that gave reason to treat every opportunity with enthusiasm. So it turned out I have a taste for cyanide. I burned the documents with the body. I've escaped unfettered. Now, I have all the time in the world without a single thing to concern. Here I am, but then I am not. This is perhaps too personal for me to please anyone. It hits too close to where my heart once was held. But I'm left with this, documentation of the era of my life when my imagination still existed to fill the page. The final edit of the artist murdered. The inner thoughts, musings, and manifestations of the would-be artist, for whatever reasons discouraged and dispelled from the annals of creative expression. Here lies an exquisite corpse, the remains of, at one time, were an artists' exploratory map, and progress in-the-making - little more than a number of lines revealing a contradicting kind, those seeking desperately to grasp... for all those told to quit, there is to be at least one that should have kept with it. This is a memoir of personal failure and of what was sacrificed in order to re-emerge. I survived the misfortune only to live this sad, state of self-loathing. You'll come to hate this as much as I hate what I've become. Every day is a moment of silent withdrawal.