The Master of Illusion
The Master of Illusion
By Tony DeLorger © 2011
How very droll I am in my anecdotal mutterings, plying my wit with articulate sensitivity. Words like puzzle pieces find their place and explain themselves with grace. I am but a master of illusion, a parody of humanity vying to transgress and render images in which words swim within the tides of creativity. I amuse myself so, my masterful quips and tales imparting my deepest levels of insanity. My mind is an infusion of both tempest and serenity, drawn to contend until either emerges, existing then in mind and paper.
How supercilious my grin, my mild attention to self-appeal. I am but vessel to my thoughts and words as a consequence. They appear from thin air asphyxiating one another until purpose finds their placement. I pensively follow their course in silence, watching with quiet observance their findings. Like throwing dice, words roll and rattle and eventually rest to reveal their identity. Then with miraculous care they assemble, alliterate, compare and contrast until they surrender with abandon, to the purpose of will.
I am but an observer of magic, the forced will of possibility, adhering to the vast landscape of creative being and by hand manifesting lies. Deceit is but the noose of a writer, hovering overhead, always judging always erring on the side of ineptitude. With it we twist meanings and reality into a conglomeration of unsettling truths that eat away at the ego. How tired I am from my own truths bleeding me dry on a page. My deceit has hung my weary bones long ago, and now I travel within the core of illusion, ready and waiting to purpose my will.
How empty I can feel, with my core split open, my words seeping like blood from pain. What I have I reveal, what I find I paint and what I think I swallow deep into the darkness of my soul. I am a pariah, a lost singular reject of human refuse glued to a pen, bleeding my experience through slit wrists. My words resound because they are real, because they impart the deathly throws of life’s suffering and pain. They see past the trite and admonish the mundane to alleviate the pursuit of truth with images painted with stark beauty.
How smug I am in my tower of words, brimming with the tears of failure, exhilarated by the compassion of freedom. I search my perfect bliss on papers bleached, knowing that my work may never be more than my purpose, just a spec of time drenched in ink. How fragile I am with all my bravado, my pretence and projections. Like a broken clock I race time to the finish, hoping to cheat its relentless honing of my being. It batters me with self-loathing and stills my hopes with doubt.
How grateful I am to be a writer, to know what I am and to find place within the profusion of thought and language. I am but a helpless being whose mind has touched the peace of tranquillity and the depths of insanity. Without decision I reside between, not either but with vision of both within my conscious mind. Here life plays with me, taunts me and reveals its angst. From this I plan my work, relentlessly, emphatically.
I am neither droll nor arrogant nor smug, but I am a writer first, beyond all else. I am an observer; I choose truth or lie and can deceive in my muttering. I can take captive your mind and journey you well, insight you, repulse you and at the end you will thank me for it. I am the Master of illusion.
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