Sunday Confessional

On the surface level it would seem that this has been a successful day for me. I had five poems published in four different venues (Dissident Voice, UFO Gigolo, Illya’s Honey, and Section 8 Magazine). I had a short story published in The Haunted Traveler. I had another poem accepted for future publication in a zine I have not previously appeared in. I’m very thankful to the editors and publishers involved, and while I’m happy to have had a good day with my writing, the fundamental fact is that there remains some sort of existential emptiness in the hollow space of my soul that has been present since I was a very young child. I’ve tried to quell the horror that such darkness brings through the years in every way I could think of: meditation, fasting, various spiritual practices, renunciation, abstinence, sex, drugs, alcohol, food, feasting, binging, sobriety, humility, prayer, minimalism, materialism, and, of course, artistic pursuits. I always held out hope that my writing would eventually serve as the catalyst which could bring my karmic balance into alignment, easing the pressure from whatever unidentified demon wages war inside my psyche. What scares the hell out of me at this point is that even with the initial success I’ve begun having during the past year as my work is published, there is still something very critical missing inside me. I’ve always considered myself to be a fairly intuitive person with at least a modicum of intelligence and common sense, yet I cannot seem to figure out how to sustain health, happiness, balance, goodness, decency, honesty, peace, and love in my consciousness. The questions are never-ending. The answers remain elusive. This human existence never budges nor gives an inch as the experience of life plays out. It’s all trials, tests, and tribulations. It’s all a process of order breaking down into chaos and then emerging again in a higher state of order. It’s constant, continual, progressive, evolutionary adaptation. Or else it is all just a cruel and twisted joke to which I am the perpetual punchline. I suppose that in the end it doesn’t necessarily matter whether I am ever able to heal completely, or if I am destined to use the suffering at my core to create art that wouldn’t be possible otherwise. Either way, I will continue to place one foot in front of the other. Either way, I will continue to seek until I find (or don’t). This concludes the woe-is-me, confused portion of the evening. Now back to the regularly scheduled programming…

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