In spite of what my little rant at the top of this blog may imply, beauty really can't exist without truth. As I see it, truth is the fabric of reality, the whys and wherefores of existence, whereas beauty occurs at those points where reality happens to come together in a pleasing way. We can't change truth; the universe is what it is. We can, however, arrange those truths we have discovered in just about any way we wish. The pattern of our lives is up to us, and history will judge us by the skill with which we weave it.
For a decade or so, the pattern I wove was rather unpleasant. It was a shameful, plaid sackcloth whose only virtue lay in its strength, a rag that would've gladly gone to the dustbin as soon as it was cut from the loom, so I'm starting over. Unraveling years of effort will be painful, but I am hopeful that this second attempt will yield something beautiful and lasting.
Somewhere along the way, life lost its magic. I abandoned Beauty, who had always been good to me, and instead shacked up with Truth, a spiteful whore who framed me for the deaths of Santa and Jesus and left me alone in a stark, cheerless universe with no way out.
Fuck this. I've had enough. Time to make my own magic.
Fuck this. I've had enough. Time to make my own magic.
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