Narcissus-X Broods on Flawed Inspiration

Thirteenth day. The fifth month, yet not the fifth day in that arbitrary cycle which begins with a day of the moon and ends with a day of the sun.

Thirteen. Thought unlucky. Thought is fleeting, art is not.

Ars longa, vita brevis; e pluribus unum: Caveat emptor; batteries not included.

Oh, for leaden skies and howling wind! A hearse, a hearse, my kingdom for a hearse! So might cry the poet, the artist, the misunderstood genius.

But no: Narcissus-X was surrounded by blue skies and chirping birds! On a 13th that isn't even a Friday!

Narcissus-X Ponders the Unticking Clock

The ticking of a clock. Symbol of time, symbol of interval. Symbol of time past.

Narcissus-X watches the clock: silently it marks the passage of each second, each minute, each hour. One number supplants another, only to be supplanted by yet another: until the cycle is complete and begins yet again.

So sound, no movement: nothing but the ever-changing, every-unchanging cycle of phosphorescent symbols.

If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is present, does it make a sound?

If a clock runs, and Narcissus-X is present, yet it makes no sound: does time pass?

If Narcissus-X watches not the clock, will time cease to be?

Narcissus-X Wanders a Wasteland of Wonder

Mendacious minions! Duplicitous deceivers! Manic marauders! Pandering poseurs parading dramatic reenactments while announcers smile and smile and yet be villains.

What good is a lifetime guarantee, to one abandoned by creativity's spark? Narcissus-X abandons late-night promises of untold wealth and perfect julienne fries, to be marooned in a morass of iterated competitions: encounters of commonplace persons, strangely animated by tantalizing promises of riches and renown.

Narcissus-X cares not what lies behind Door Number One, Door Number Two, or Door Number Three. Word association, blind guesswork. Not even set design of decades long gone offer Narcissus-X hope of release.

Perhaps the stylized combat of geococcyx and latrans will re-awaken creative fires within Narcissus-X.

Narcissus-X Contemplates Flight Through the Ebon Abyss

Churning mass of umber-hued mire. Dark dither of dull dreams, drably parading past a review stand of petrified oligarchs.

Out! Narcissus-X rages: Out with you, sharp-edged nuggets of thought! Emerge from your prison! Narcissus-X, sinking as if alone in an oatmeal ocean.

Alone. The artist is a lonely one: pursuing what others cannot, or do not wish to, see; traveling paths made by - what?

Perhaps Narcissus-X the sleeping has already traversed these lands, leading the way for Narcissus-X the waking. If only Narcissus-X could meet Narcissus-X: could merge the waking and the sleeping mind.

Then - fly through the ebon abyss of night with all eyes open: those that see only light, and the eye of the mind which perceives what is seen, and can peer into the unseen: now and again catching an outline - a color - a movement. And return, as a ship in ancient times: returning from unknown lands with strange cargo.

Narcissus-X Ponders Porlockian Presences

Soulless circuits screaming hoarse cries, frenetic cadence shredding serenity: slumber's visions cloven, wavering, rippling; and gone. Narcissus-X reaches for the spectral shapes: grasps and holds - nothing.

Precious phantasm. Dream or vision, impression of a truth or the truth itself: it is gone.

Metronome of madness, watcher of the hours, perfidious sentinel of sleep: the porlockian presence shall not despoil the domain of dreams again. Narcissus-X has paper, pen, and lamp at hand, should shrill alarms again disturb the portals of dream.

Narcissus-X Ponders Aspiration

Noble schemes seldom forfeit,
Braver deeds often fail,
Than trying to carry water
In an old, rusty pail.

Narcissus-X Contemplates the Suchness of Forms

Qantas and quatloos, quivers of quail:
Mountains of elephants packed like a snail.
Merfolk in desert, camel on ice:
Cats are like giants for krill in a pail.