The Enemy of the Good (eideteker) wrote,
The Enemy of the Good
eideteker

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The Fiction.

"I had a dream of the open water
I was swimming away out to sea
So deep I could never touch bottom
What a fool I used to be."
—Rush, Presto

"I've always had a fear of being out in middle of a large body of water. When other children would swim to the platform at the middle of a manmade lake, I hugged the shore. I demurred when my peers would scramble across the disused docks and piers that stretched, half-submerged, into the Hudson. Later in life, I grew more adventurous, diving from a boat into the heart of that great North American river. I was rewarded with a hole in my foot that needed to be sewn shut to heal. So I learned to be timid, and to respect and fear what was greater than myself. Still, I was fascinated by tales of Victorian seafarers adrift in seldom-trafficked seas. When I closed my eyes, I could see myself on a handmade raft, clinging to some piece of flotsam, or simply treading water, staring at an infinite horizon in all directions. Imagine my surprise when I opened my eyes one day and the vision remained. The sea, which once held an open hand to me containing limitless possibilities, had come to claim its due: me."



The Reality.

I've been reading comic books and listening to LPs all weekend. Sometimes regression is necessary for growth (justifying much?), and the issues of Doom 2099 especially have rekindled my fires of creativity. Laugh if you must, but I have fashioned much of my imaginary self on the not-so-good Doctor. He is a human, but a being invulnerable in his sheer rationality and indomitable will (stronger even than Mephisto's) all trapped behind an iron mask. My father warned me against becoming a talking head.

In recent months, I have been awakening my dormant hemisphere and diverting crucial nutrients to my corpus callosum in order to reach some measure of balance. I've been acknowledging the irrational, illogical, and disorganized creative talent I keep under lock and key. So much of my life has been spent on amassing facts, knowledge; attempting to fix reality. But you cannot nail water down; even ice cracks under the cold chisel of analysis. My eyes have been opened, after a fashion. I'd seen this before, but I thought I was dreaming. But no, here I am, trapped on a sea of limitless possibility, threatened by starvation—or madness—for fear of choosing a single direction in which to paddle. I am buried under the weight of my own dreams.

Even now, I learn to harness my dreams. I learn to control them, but also when to go with the flow for fear of sapping them of their own exotic life and vitality. In controlling your dreams, you must pick a direction. There is too much tendency to want to do anything in your dreams, but you must pick a path or your control will fail. You will be lost at sea again, with nothing but your wits. So I must say good-bye to many of the future selves I have conceived; the Millionaire, the Scientist, the Mystic, and others. If I choose the Writer, I cannot turn back. I may meet these future versions of myself; the Writer certainly aspires to be the Millionaire, if he is successful (not that that's my measure). But they are of no use to me here, now. I don't need them to control my own destiny; I am Doom.

There are some hurdles. The greatest struggle lies between the Writer and the Father. Do I dare risk the happiness and financial security (not that I should equate those two...) I always swore to provide? Again, the two may not prove mutually exclusive. Only time will tell. I have still not made my choice. For now, I am content with learning to listen. An oft-heard voice yesterday told me there was no childhood's end, and, for the first time, I listened. I can do anything. I'm still the child (note, my profile has reflected the name "The Eternal Child" for the past month). And I've found direction.

Land ho!
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