This is my metacognitive letter.
My ode to thinking about thinking (about writing). As of late, my tone has become progressively dark, and delighting in irony. The meaning for this is due to an increasing awareness that something is not altogether “right” in the sharp pains of my throbbing, swollen brain. A death sentence doled out by too many hard, “caring” and self-loathing blows. I am now haunted by death. I am consumed with breaking from social fallacies preaching for-profit, trivial beliefs. I am growing increasingly estranged from anyone and everything, all for a mere touch of understanding what we waste our entire lives denying.
We are a species undeserving of our role on top of the food chain, infatuated with success and diseased with emotion. What is more frustrating perhaps, is our blind inability to step outside ourselves long enough to catch a glimpse of our brilliance- all that we could become but never will as we exist.
So, come one, come all! Grab your poison and curl up by the fire where we’ll drown in the pool of my imagination, and sink deep into its despair.
*Painting by: Arnold Böcklin, “Self Portrait With Death Playing the Fiddle”, 1872