On all hallows eve
We may all drop our masks
For this one night
Even monsters may walk the streets
Free of persecution and fear
< — >
And though we may not be monsters
The tainted nature that lies beneath innocent eyes
Is far from pure and true
< — >
But should our true nature be too much a scare
We can always cover it with a new façade
To give us a change from the everyday
< — >
But as you would show your soul
So do others in this fantastical affair
The trick of the night
Is telling the real creatures from the faces of paint
< — >
And should the option be given
Of trick or treat
Beware others interpretations
For another’s treat could be your worst idea of a trick
To watch a nightmare through a heart of glass
An ash covered field where dreams do start
A curse of a demon whose tears have burnt
For the sake of a angel that transcends this world
A quest that hath faltered upon deserts of icy shards
As in dying breath I am forced to see a vision of events passed
A nightmare glanced through a heart of glass
My wrath and vengeance could burn empires if left unchecked
It is the scorching flames that dragons bellow from their fiery guts
The merciless fury that god like creatures cast down upon the earth
Less than few can stand against the torrent of a man possessed
Even less can tame it
It is those blessed that with obsession I hunt
It is those blessed that with much regret I miss
The creative storm is a less than forgiving mistress and rarely shows mercy, for the storm has no room for anything but the project, the mission, the act of imagination turned form. But a worse fate would be to live without the genesis spark that ignites endless ideas, for it defines us as much as much it destroys us.
Picture this; the factory has just finished its last run of ‘types’ for delivery, the ‘Sports Stars’ are ready to run wild and free across their respective habitats, ‘Politicians’ are maliciously plotting to manipulate situations and back stab the competition till their black hearts are replete. ‘Rebellious’ type feverishly gathering momentum to rage against the social machine and the ‘Normal’ average person is just patiently waiting to contentedly run their happy little lives.
The orders from on high have been completed as jubilant workers look forward to a few hundred years off until they need to expand the range to include Flappers, Bikers, Mods and Rockers, not to mention the myriad of new personalities to be generated with the march of time and technology.
The once proud building is eerily quiet as person shaped moulds linger unloved and spent, as rejected or defective components are left discarded at the back of store rooms that once shone with the best qualities of humanity. Majestic machines once so splendid unhealthily spit out cogs; thick pillars of horrific black smoke escape through cracked facades.
Some ‘Management’ type in an upstairs office is casually perusing the reports from his padded chair, sipping coffee from a drinks maker that humanity is yet to develop the technology required to build it, something for another time and another poor sod to deal with!
Then the mind shattering revelation slams our now shaken ‘Management’ type…
Who will design the stadiums for competitive sports? How will the ruling forces be immortalised in stone and paint? How will the rebellious, mass outside palaces and parliaments if nobody works out a way to build them? Panic sets in….
Back in the factory only the most humble of employees remains to reflectively survey the wreckage that once contributed to the foundation of a specie’s ascent to civilisation and mastery over the natural world. Defunct machines that have been running for a time as long as evolution itself, burnt out and no longer in a safe state to work; tired and broken, various bloody nicks go unnoticed as our sole remaining worker feels his body ache, the first hundred years or so will be spent just unwinding, let alone attempting anything else.
The lights so close to going out, our humble worker can feel the freedom he seeks…
The familiar noise of another order request hitting a desk is like an anvil upon our worker’s dreams, who dare request more than has been given? To say the resulting feelings weren’t pure would be a lie… to say they were akin to poisonous rage wouldn’t be! After the rage there is resignation, resignation turns to single-minded focus “get this done and you’re free” becomes the worker’s chant.
“URGENT: We need a ‘Creative’ type, everything’s on the line” he reads the order with a frustrated sigh – “get this done and you’re free” repeats again as the seemingly forsaken task begins.
Condemned signs are torn off the machinery as fits of fevered activity and angry screaming can be heard in abundance, the defunct machines are reanimated in miraculous fashion whilst musings on how to fix the unloved moulds start to form semi-coherent designs in our worker’s mind. The work is rewarding but stressful, the number of successes is met with an equal number of failures and still there is the final challenge/question; what is a ‘Creative’ type? Why is he the only one left to decide?
Shattered pieces manically come together in artistic style, where elements are missing, replacements are dug out from the abandoned discarded depths of the storeroom and the mould now resembling abstract art more than any of the mundane forms that have preceded it. Mirrored in the mould’s jerry-rigged appearance of functional chaos is the mind-set of such a perfectly imperfect, impossible creature. The Creative’ type…
A lashing of the sport star’s energy and passion as fuel for the storm
A dash of politician’s cunning underlies the process that binds together random elements
A stirring of wildness and freedom drawn from a rebel’s rebellious streak, an essence of defiance to match
The final ingredient is stolen from genesis itself, a pure spark of imagination at its best
Our worker gives the final fatal spice that drives, inspires, twists and destroys, whilst acting as the catalyst for creativities inherent instability, but what is this fatal element you ask?
It is the vengeance and fury of being the only one to truly understand, to see the world in all its colours both wretched and bright. This very essence of such forces like depression, anxiety and untamed frenzy hath been born of our worker’s resentful venom, which has leaked into the mix with as much genuine positive motive, as spiteful intention to seek vengeance for sanity lost.
Out of the factory gates goes the first batch, destined for greatness and beyond, our worker however leaves through the side gate as the heavy cloak of night conceals the silent exit of this story’s unseen hero. So let us raise a glass to the nameless worker for what has been gifted, imagination unbound; under our breaths a muttered curse for the price we pay, the relentless storm that remorselessly consumes rational thought.
And when the hour is high in the shadowy night, when you feel the humble worker’s corrupted smile from heavens above, contemplate deep the true mystery: that is the ‘Creative Type’.
I wrote a poem entitled ‘To Play the Fool’; its opening line reads ‘The role of saint is one I do not wish’ and upon that note I find my current mood very much resonating.
I’m not a naturally social person; neither do I feel the need to care about much that doesn’t concern me, great way to introduce myself I know! But I’m a good person; I am knightly in my noble quest to better other’s lives when the duty calls, even when my own life is on the fast track to hell. I have seen the twisted depths of self destruction that humanity can lead to, tasted the sour mix of disappointed and am forced to endure the horrid flavour it’s forced down my throat.
So to the world I stand in my tarnished but honourable armour, banner in hand as upon the chaos of other’s lives I ride to save the day, a damn fine fellow to the core. The less subtle way of explaining it has a more ruthless edge, my true colours revealed as the machine of my nature is exposed in its callous truth, my words not in sync with the world of fluffy shit we are expected to live by.
I have to deal with the shit, the crap of human nature as with little enjoyment and the grim flash of an unnatural smile I eat the putrid servings forced upon me, the true bite of this unholy situation reflected in the time I am alone and dealing with my own shit. Who is there for me to turn to? After I’ve seen the worst of those around me can I still pretend I’m not on my own? Why should I care?
So I sit with my laptop, a picture of loneliness, Jazz FM in the background to dissuade my destructive tendencies as I type the poisonous resentment seeping from every fault line of my fractured soul, the question I feel needs asking ringing loud; Can you lose the ability to care?, a notion whose words haunt with every letter that’s entwined into its threatening formation.
To explore this dangerous notion I must first state the background from which I draw the question, I am an intently good person who pays my dues and abides by the laws of common decency, I’m not perfect by far but I don’t commit any major sins or moral breeches and even appear human on occasion. Yet my attempts to find happiness and contentment in life are twisted against me, emotion wreckage a chillingly common sight on the paths I take to engage my humanity, my legs were broken before the race of life even began.
You would think I might be awarded for trying, some hollow token of happiness at least to numb the crippling pain I feel as I am reminded just how rigged the odds against me were, a taste of pure joy that doesn’t reduce to hurtful ash before I get the briefest sample of genuine pleasure. When a man is made/born to feel this level of wretchedness without reprieve you realise the futility of my question, it’s not a case of can you lose the ability to care but when.
“A light no matter how small is a sun when shone in the dark, unless the darkness has become blindness to any form of light”, how long until this becomes my own fate…