Where is my wish list boast? My dream ship host? My making of the most?
Things were better when I lived in my childing imagination more. There, even if there wasn’t actuality, there was inspiration. There was poetry. For the envisaging, for the feeling, for the writing.
Here, in the land of the purported real and actual, there’s only desolation and the chance to encounter the ultimate bane of all existence.
Fine, perhaps. It’s the path I seem to have chosen. When, at the momentous instance of becoming in my youth, the Trickster asked me what I wanted to be, I replied “ a warrior poet”. But the Trickster cackled back at me: “You can only be one thing. And you said ‘warrior’ first And I’m allowed to make the rules. And that’s the rule I just made for you.”
And I didn’t protest at that moment with sufficient vociferousness.
So I’ve been battling that bastard Trickster ever since. For that’s what a warrior does: battle. Yet to defeat the Trickster would be to prove him wrong. To become that poet, too.
Now, being not only the damnedestly most intrepid warrior on nether-Earth, but cursed with a strange form of wilely intelligence nethertheless, I strive to regain my Trickster-dissed muse. Here in the land of the purported real and actual. I wish to become the bane of my own poetic desolation.