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Karin lit a clove and watched the smoke curl up in front of Kieran, obscuring first his nose, then an eye in a curlicue of grey.
-----“I just…think too much sometimes. About my art, my life, my perceptions. Do I even have a right to create? Do I create? I really wonder where these ideas come from. I mean, I’ve seen pictures of brains, these fat, wet and slimy lumps of flesh that sit in our heads, bathed in sickly fluids. How can something so base, so fleshy, so elemental ever touch an idea? How can something comprised of cold fact ever think up something new? Am I creating something new? How do I know that these ideas, these images, these stories aren’t just out there already, floating around for some prospective author to find?”
-----Kieran grinned and shifted on the bed. “Maybe you ask too many questions.”
-----Karin grimaced and blew a wobbly smoke ring in his face. “That bring me to another idea. This base flesh, how can they feel and sense? How can these eyes that tear up when I laugh, that are blurry in the morning, that itch when I’ve scratched them, how can they see something and turn it into something beautiful that I experience? It’s almost like they couldn’t have come about without design, but then again I’ve heard the same people who talk about a designed human go on to say how we’re all sinful and bad. I don’t understand that either – how can everyone be sinful when we all have the capacity to experience or create something wonderful?”
-----“Well, you can always have a benevolent deity, some figure interested in light and beauty.”
-----Karin shook her head violently, and got up, stabbing out the cigarette and striding over to the window. She tore upon the shade and pointed outside. “Look out there. It’s two in the morning. City lights are dim pinpricks in an ocean of grey. The sun is hinting at rising, making the cloudy sky a dark blue from an inkbottle. The leaves whisper secrets to each other while the wind tries to listen in. It’s so bleak, so harsh and so wonderful it makes me want to die just to I can stay in it forever. Outside isn’t night, its forever. It’s an instant that will never go away if you hold onto it just right, we just can’t figure out the way to do so. Sometimes I think that I can do that with art. I can find the moment and hold it to myself until I’ve absorbed it, and condensed it into words. Then, I write it down and make it stay. It doesn’t work though. It never does. Either the feeling goes away, or someone sees it differently, or it doesn’t compare to the original. I can never break through the horrible barrier that it isn’t real. What I make isn’t what I seek to preserve in the first place, and if I’m doomed like that, do I even have the right to try?”
 Nihilistic Seraph · Sun Dec 17, 2006 @ 08:04am · 1 Comments |
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