It’s been about two weeks since I’ve started this website, and I only have a handful of posts, but this cannot be purely attributed to mere laziness. I have a vast horizon of drafts that I have stored up, and when my creative energies swell and give birth to a flux of fireflies, I am quick to catch and store their essence before they burnout to the ephemeral corporality that housed them. Sometimes they are taken whole, most other times they are merely fragments that I must piece together from recollection piecemealed and meshed together with a synpotical assortment of my knowledge.
In order to write, one must catch the igniting spark of spontaneous clairvoyance from without and to forge it into a solid, articulate form while the iron sears white. That is the explosive, romantic inspiration that makes for good montage scene in a film.
But that is also indicative of a rank amateur that leaves his talents to the whimsical winds of fate. The bitch of lady luck rather than her master.
The writer with skin in the game writes even when the augur sees that the birds do not fly in the formation that favors him. He himself must stoke the flame and to labor until he is the spark of his enkindlement.
It is so easy to throw out words while speaking, for it is uncommitted and thrown downwind for others to hear, and does not require the precision needed for the permanence of inscribing thought onto paper. It calls for more refinement and distillation, as it is not a fantastical soliloquy of the mind, but a dialogue of the mind who seeks to fabricate physicality in attempt of a perfect expression to another which in turn, refines the self by giving form to thought.
But in all mediums of expression the Auteur’s arrow falls short of the bull’s-eye to wind, as we are afflicted with the fall and our corporality makes us subject to the laws of thermodynamics where there is never a complete transfer of energy, which is the privilege of only the angelic intelligences.
Therefore it is the duty and trial of every Auteur to render intelligible all his thoughts in a way that crystallizes it into immortality, for those afflicted with the gift of flame to keep it stoked and glass opaque stone into a transparent intelligibility.
It shall be a reservoir, a amplificating pylon for the mute, the lost, and the inarticulate who will grasp and feel the articulations that they previously can only feel in their guts, now coursing through the warmth of the heart.