You could definitely say that I'm a strange man.
Eccentric. Odd. Weird. Any of those apply.
I'm afflicted with an eidetic memory. I make connections between things that would take other people years to try and figure out. I have incredibly diverse tastes, equally at home with Daylight Dies or Rachmaninoff, the WWE or Yevgeny Zamyatin's We. [I don't know where this Russian theme is coming from, but it's neat]. I can ramble on ad infinitum about books, comics, music, film, television, history, philosophy, theatre, magick, or food at the drop of a hat, weaving in and out of other disciplines while I'm at it. Usually either confounding or capturing, often a combination of both, the listener. I'm a little obsessive compulsive. It's not out of hubris when I say that I sometimes scare people with my intelligence.
...and for many years, I've hidden. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but some part of me got broken, fell into patterns of "normal" life, got broken again, and has been trying to piece itself together ever since. One step at a time.
You could say that I've been to hell and back, and met myself somewhere along the way. I've been torn down; bent, spindled, mutilated. I've had what I thought was my identity ripped away from me, some deep seated beliefs shown to be empty, and yet, somehow some thing survives. Persistence of self is an interesting phenomenon. An aggregate of ideas, thoughts and experiences clutching on to existence with every last inch.
The one thing that I know is true: I'm a writer. Writing has been the one constant through it all, the only difference is that for quite some time, I haven't written anything public. [Ooh, writing about writing, how very meta of you]. It takes a special kind of misanthrope to continue doing an activity that results in a faulty liver, pale pasty skin, and an inability to react appropriately in social situations. It's also odd when you think about the sheer level of ego one must possess to believe that anything that they write is even worth reading by one person, let alone publishing things for many people to read.
It'd be nice to sit and stare at the Sun. Feeling the warmth on my face. But the formulae of the dead and dying god are past and I must persevere on.
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