Nothing of any meaning comes from complacency. That’s what I told myself whilst walking around the quarry this afternoon. Just after this photo was taken, it started to piss down. So, taking refuge beneath some trees, I sat and smoked a cigarette. No art of merit is born without pain, I said. There needs to be suffering, because suffering brings out the words, brings out the truth. It opens the doors of perception. Creation is a violent process. Sex is violent. Just like the birth of stars. There needs to be destruction. For destruction is a form of creation. With thunder rolling in the distance, all of my wasted days mocked me. Those days, when the words were locked deep inside. But suffering brought them out. It ignited the fire, and boy, do those flames tickle me something sweet right now.
Being out in the open when it’s thundering scares me. It scared me when I was a kid, and it remains so as a (nearly) thirty year old man. I’m not really a man though, I’m still a boy. I’m Peter Pan. A Lost Boy, some kind of lonely vampire with a taste for words and girly flesh. In fields of wet corn and swaying trees, I wanted nothing more at that moment to make love to a seductive woman. Give me some passion. Give me a little leg. Gazing eyes, and yeah, some cleavage too. Let me take you to a clearing away from those who have no right to be watching. Let me put my hands all over you as the rain comes down heavier. Swimming in lust. Swimming in the eye of the storm. I want to make you gasp, for you to scream a silent scream as my bones merge with yours. Life should be full of such moments. When everything else becomes meaningless. Two lovers, disappearing within each other as the world begs to know the secrets they pass between their mouths.
Secrets. It’s all about secrets. When the day grows dark, they glow just out of reach. They shimmer on the horizon, calling my name. They dance in the wind, amongst the leaves and scattered remnants of love. Everytime the world forces me to become like those around me, my heart shrinks. It’s shrinking all the time, just like my aged soul. Resistance is the key. Keep chasing secrets, even though you’ll never find them, the places they’ll take you will be wondrous. Living without dreams, is like not living at all. Laugh at those who put you down, because they’re weak. To step outside, is to be strong. To walk the lesser travelled path, takes guts. And all those others, their guts are just full of junk. They’re hearts and minds too, full of useless junk. Never grow up, because if you do, you’ll lose that childhood thirst for adventure. The shadows won’t be home to monsters, they’ll just be shadows. The power of imagination, to conjure up infinite realms of fantasy, will be reduced to conjuring up how much money you can earn. To work out where in the world you’ll go on holiday next summer. And then finally, what plot of land you’ll be buried in. I don’t think of dying, because I know I never will. I’ll live on in my words, and for that I’ll dance with the gods forever.
Eventually, it stopped raining. I never did make love to a seductive woman in the fields of golden wet corn. But it was okay, for I tasted freedom, and it made me smile. Everyone should taste this kind of freedom. The mind is a key. Not to golden possessions and luxury, but to a door of unknown pleasures just begging to be opened.