The Jumbled Being Of EA Black

The jumbled being of ea_black. It states clearly what it's about. A jumbled being. If you did not figure it out, I see trouble in the coming chapters, not for me mind you, but for you.

This is the third attempt, the first attempt is unpublished, the second you might know. The worlds in me. It failed. Not a failed experiment, but there is a thing I hope to achieve, yet it eludes me with slippery madness.

The world in me didn't fail in actual sense, but was written with adherence to rules of story structure. A start, a middle, a conclusion.

What I want is freedom to do as I please, write as I please, explore as I please. This is where the jumbled being comes in. It will follow no set rules. Hopefully. These things have a way of sneaking up on you.

This is not a rant. If you thought it. Take it out of your mind.

I'm a fan of Order and Chaos. But I lean on the side of chaos. Yet I snatch a portion of order, and create what I call: orderly chaos, chaotic order, chaos of order, order of chaos, order in chaos, chaos in order.

I hope the jumbled being succeeds where the worlds in me failed. Not because of any fault, but a limitation of words and a bubble of time that always runs out before I achieve anything.

I want to tell stories, my stories, in the manner it comes to me. I am what you call a chronic recluse. Not chronic in the sense of something that needs to be cured. But chronic as the height of what I wish to express. I love myself, immensely, I won't wish for your life, mine fills me with joy. It doesn't mean all is good, yet it doesn't matter, for if I don't love my life in its entirety, flaws and all, how can I profess to love another. Impossible I say. You can't give, what you don't have. You can't accept a flaw, if you don't accept yours. Yet who am I to tell you what to do, to feel, to think. The nerve. A guy who leans to chaos. What rubbish.

Limitation of words. Over four hundred words, and have yet to say what I truly want to say. Not because I don't know it, but because it's right there, at the edge of my consciousness, yet doesn't surface. The truth is freedom, yet comes with great vulnerability.

Let me try.

So hard.

I am more than the worlds in me, the jumbled being, the cycle, yet terrible whispers say otherwise. It's easy to shun them most times, but the days they break through, it becomes a night that never ends. I know numerous persons feel this way: the price of being human, yet not a reason to become anything else. Let the gloom come, let the bad days, the loss, the tears, the heartbreak, the grief, the unrealized potential, the unfulfilled dreams, the list is long, and my articulation may be wrong, but being human needs no added benefit. Being human is gift enough.

Embrace the gift, then tackle the problem.

A lack of self expression, a release for the things that bubble within; I won't infer a conclusion. Read for yourself, infer the fate after the words.

There will be no set rules, no set structure, I have said before, albeit, in a different tone at the start of 'the worlds in me'. It sounded like a joke then, this is not.

I see planets that revolve around three suns, I see a kiss, I see love, I see two hands reaching for each other, yet pulled apart by circumstances more powerful and beyond their sphere of influence. I see three children on adventures, phasing through trees, walking through doors that lead to nowhere, yet opens up to everywhere. I see a man scorched by the fires of a hard life, yet became a better and stronger man for it.

A bubble of time that always runs out before I achieve anything. Death, and the loss of the ability to write. Death is the only option. A scary truth. I see the cringe, I see bewilderment, I see appalled spirits. The truth is freedom, yet comes with great vulnerability.

But there is a life that currently is, without such a choice.

So why so few words. No other reason than life. Life, the parts we wish were not, but is. Bills, bills, bills. Work, work, work.

A bubble of time that always runs out before I achieve anything. You carve out time to do what you love, but it's never enough. So you must abandon what you love, do something you don't love, in hope that at the end of the day, there is strength left to type those words in black, screaming to live, screaming to be, and thus you sleep, and wake, and bills are there, and thus you work, and what you love dies. The truth is freedom, yet comes with great vulnerabity.

I read the words of those who are, and yearn for what they have. I see their skill, and marvel: what manner of socery is this. Brilliant. So brilliant it leaves you feeling stupid. So brilliant you doubt yourself. Brilliant. So brilliant still.

Over nine hundred words, and have yet to say what I truly want to say. Not because I don't know it, but because it's right there, at the edge of my consciousness, yet doesn't surface.

Did you see, did you hear. Live I say. Live.

One thousand words, and I must stop. The truth is great vulnerability.