Prelude to The Wars

The push and pull in me that is writing and art versus science and reason. ~ The eternal battle. The unending conflict. The hurt. ~ The all-consuming uncertainty, self-doubt and self-examination that inevitably results in closing my eyes and sighing in despair. ~ I feel my heart pounding. I feel my cold hands. I feel the silence. ~

That indomitable side of me battles against the cold, reserved exterior. ~ The rushing fire, the ache, the pent-up scream releases itself occasionally in tears and often in sighs of frustration. ~ This is not a fight that has a winner -neither side ever conquers the other. ~

And this is what they call the wars. ~

Midnight ramblings, where the allusions come and go like my bad metaphors. ~ This is merely a taste. ~

Frazzled nerves, frazzled writing. ~ A coda is needed here to express a related but slightly tangent topic - an analysis of the reasons behind writing. ~

When I think on certain subjects that irritate, worry or cause me deep a polarization of emotion, I start at the slight, niggling sense of comfort that blooms correspondingly in the back of my mind. ~ Because I know there will always be writing - that easy release, the safety in words streaming out from under my fingertips, unbidden yet unstoppable. ~ This is therapy. ~

Perfection

You pull the moist, creamy cake out of the oven. A tantalizing, mouth-watering smell of rich chocolate emanates from it. You hold your breath, hardly daring to breathe on your masterpiece. Its perfect roundness, the impeccably smooth surface, the just-right shade of chestnut... ~ You smile in contentment. This is perfection. ~

When someone has achieved a semblance of perfection, the initial high seems to drown out everything else. ~ That moment of euphoria, of a sense of complete certainty that the world is right, of self-justification at last, can at once wipe away days, weeks, even months of toil and despair. ~

Just as easily, though, an inkling of doubt wedges itself back into the mind. ~ That dreaded blemish, that fall from perfection, seems just a half-step away. Misplace your foot, and the scale tips. ~ The ice-thin surface you were treading so confidently on is suddenly jarred by an ugly crack. ~ All at once, the illusion is shattered. ~ Ice cold water engulfs you, taking your breath away. ~ As you hold your breath, your mind goes numb. ~ How did it all go wrong, you wonder? ~ What changed? ~
Almost nothing. ~ Simply, your art. ~ What you have produced. ~ Your creation. ~ What's in a painting? Strokes. One after the next, you paint away, your brush dancing gracefully on the canvas. ~ Then, splat. ~ An ugly glob, born of carelessness, right in the middle. ~ Perfection, ruined. ~
Yet take a step back. ~ If you add a tiny bit of paint here, and a swipe there, that blob turns into a beautiful rose. ~ Not the perfection you were looking for, but a new, more vivid and jarring piece of work. ~ An unexpected appeal to the eye. ~
So while perfection may have produced a picture-perfect piece of artwork, failure drew your attention to a different kind of beauty - an asymmetrical beauty, a flawed beauty, a bittersweet beauty. ~ And that inspires so much more emotion than the mundane perfection, which in itself loses it special quality because it lacks dissonance. ~