Acceptance, Anxiety, art, Autism, Belief, Blatant, Bold, Books, Christianity, Creation, creative writing, Desire, emotion, Exhortation, Faith, Fantasy, Fear, Genius, God, Gospel, Hope, Imagination, Innovation, Insanity, Love, Madness, Magic, mind, Novels, Psychosis, psychotic behavior, Publication, Reality, Rebellion, Ruminations, schizophrenia, Storytelling, Suicide, Torture, What is real?, Words, Worlds, Writing
If I had known that ten million people read my book, and that my second was at last published and made the New York Times bestseller, that the world was loving what I wrote and that my message was now at the mercy for the world to do with as it wishes, I would commit suicide. Why? Because I just want people to read what I wrote. I do not care about money, I loath the idea of being wealthy. I do not care about fame, I abhor publicity. I do not desire forthrightly to see my books be made into movies (movies from books being, of course, completely separate from the literature thereto; represented to the public as pieces of entertainment to appease those who do not necessarily read). I wish to give the world the depth of my imagination which has lead me into a schizophrenic break from reality, induced an obsessive compulsive personality, invoked my creation of a religion (I am a firm and devout Christian whose meanderings in the aforementioned derived from the lacking of power) enticed a masochistic pleasure in cutting myself climaxed with an official suicide attempt; hoping to not succeed so I might at last get loved.
I am now no longer actively psychotic (literally forcing myself to recognize that “they” are not real), I have repressed my impulses of OCD so far that, save for just the slightest quirks with checking to make sure my car door is locked with repetition, four beeps on the microwave and counting stairs, I can surely function in a public and/or social situation, I have succeeded in managing my desire for physical pain via my knife against my skin (notice I used the word “managing” and not “overcome”) and I find anything in life in which I may continue to live: family; friends; music; my violin; music; praying to God maddeningly that he allow for my stories to be read by the masses that I accomplish what, in my faith is known as the Great Commission, he has called me to do: to spread the Gospel by way of parabolic, analogic and metaphoric storytelling. Believe, reader, whatsoever thou dost desire to believe. I am not here to force you nor press strongly my faith upon you that I act tyrannically and, even so, against how God instructs me to teach the Bible at all (there! I have officially covered myself! [this would be a prime opportunity to engage in the contemporary idioms of our social-networking times of short handed text by employing the use of the frequent acronym defined by the words “laugh out loud”, to better emphasis the point that I am a lighthearted person, despite the prior written dark content hence given amid these lines, and to additionally confound the notion that, in lieu of my father in heaven being all for which my soul, heart, mind and strength is so defined–wishing, verily, that others come to an understanding of him akin to what I have learned over the past thirty years–I can only show one the door that I myself have walked through. Whether or not anyone decides to open it and go through it as I have falls to the current reader’s personal subjectivity]).
Yes, I would kill myself (*sigh* hypothetically) if I knew that my book was reaching people and that I had accomplished what I believe blindingly that I have been called to do. Yet, that singularity for which allows an author’s work to become popular has not yet occurred. Amidst the query letters, THESE BLOGS, my Facebook fan page, my interview, my press release and kit, my marketing manager, my own word-of-mouth… nothing has yet griped the public among the chaos of the literary world in reference to my book. I put my soul into my words (more so in the midst of my stories). The Rudimentum Series: Paradisium: this is the completed sequel to The Rudimentum Series: Aeon Eternal. Paradisium (no, you will not find that last word in the pages of any dictionary of any language ever created in our universe’s history: Paradisium is the word in Angellium [my language] which is translated into… I am not going to tell you because it should be ridiculously easy to figure out) is the greatest thing I personally ever wrote. I re-read it sparingly, for amid its content I find myself visiting reoccurring states of schizophrenic textures. I held nothing back… iridescently, infernos of nomenclatures tantamount ideally of hysterical vocabulary of psychotic raving evinced into vague comprehendible structures of words, that insofar as my mind albeit morosely lied founded in evanescent reality, separated in metemophopsia past to the arcane from this, for which “they” continue to harass my arguably grounded mind in what asinine functions a human perplexingly calls his home of earth. Ergo, in the ethereal comprising of planes existing in tandem via shared imaginative insanity of all great authors, lest I fall once again into what I call my Agony vainly, I refuse to yet finish The Rudimentum Series until the moment comes where, for the expenditure of Diminishing once again–as I call it–I will lie in the knowledge that the world shall experience a real world; made as so detailed in its conundrum wherefore not mine but Creacia’s celebration allows my corpse to be eaten by worms in perfect contentment.
No, my books are not really this in depth, perpetually. But there are many times, especially in Paradisium, where, following a writing session, as I perform an out of body experience (not literally, yet not figuratively either), it was almost as if I was not actually writing those words therein at all; as if an actual influence came over my mind, soul and heart which made manifest the words I, myself, have trouble believing I wrote as I re-read the novels. Yes, I believe most adamantly in demons and angels and possessions, although I also believe that my Christian state creates in me an imperviousness to such attacks. However, I also believe that God allows his influence to be cast into peoples’ hearts and souls which, in turn, allows him to be shown–even if just slightly–in any random act of kindness, goodness, graciousness or even, on those rare yet unmistakable circumstances, miracles. Thus, why not a little God to have caused his divine influence so casted into my fingers as they type this keyboard in the manifestation of a story I feel will cause a great revelation… if only people would read it!
I have a friend. He was once psychotic himself. He solved a problem–to which school I shall not speak of for I promised him that I would not tell anyone that he solved it–which would give him, in an instant, an x amount of money which he could retire on. The greatest minds in history have not even remotely touched this solution, and I know this man personally. He is a genius! He spoke to me of an idea he had (for which his mind thus engenders ten earth changing ideas every morning, to say nothing for which passes in his mind throughout the transpirations of the day and night). I will not even give the name of the idea because, if, in theory, it came to full fruition, it would alter the course of the Bible’s prophetic word itself; contradicting the very infallible nature of God! Granted, he is not going to try to pursue it because he knows the outcome is protected and the whole course of action verily rigged. It is not an emotion of honor I hold in having been confided such data, it is a matter of symbiosis: his mind exceeds that of my own, in which I humble myself to say. And insofar as I cannot quite match his methods of intellect, I can understand them. Through our currently one and a half year relationship, his circumference of friends has transposed erratically. Few he calls “good friends” (for there is another mate between us two for which our rather juvenile state of genius exists dwarfed before his age and overall experience) and yet I have been the one he not only trusts, but the one he always refers to in the event of his trigger that he sees potential in me. So, where do our conversations meander, you say? Ironically, we have been known to discuss things as practical as dieting. At the same time, dialogue thusly reciprocated has tentatively touched upon the outer rims of the symposiums of necromancy.
They say that, “fashion favors the bold”. Perhaps the reason why my stated ideal by which I forlornly lack the fame I albeit detest lies parallel to my habit of deplorable placation. Perhaps it is time my true mind be released to the world that I ejaculate all for which, even in my Agony (insanity) I but only grazed the outer tresses of eternity. Hast thou fallen in thy attention the world of Creacia? Hast thou gathered in thy mind the limitless powers of the Alchemist in which, by his will to create perfection, induced an apocalypse which makes Armageddon a light rain on a cloudy day in relativity? No? Of course not, because you have not read my book yet. If you are willing to take thyself into a universe which, like Lord of the Rings or the Chronicles of Narnia, is full of magic, then, by all means, encapsulate yourself at least in the first of the Rudimentum Series: Aeon Eternal and not expect, not anticipate but know, rather, as prophecy the upcoming composition of psychotic creations for which Paradisium (the sequel to Aeon Eternal, just as a reminder; not yet published) invokes what I myself, again, fail to stand in composed sanity in re-reading. Please, please, at the absolute minimum, take the slightest of ganders into your own intellection and trust to hope that there is an author out there who has and is in the process of writing a book series which atomizes the supposed vastness of Middle Earth, Narnia, Panem or even Game of Thrones! This is creation: people and places and things becoming real; as real as they become to incumbent fear that individuals might loose an understanding of what term is still loosely defined as “reality”. This is….
-The Giver of Words.