The opening paragraph of my autobiography

[expatriot]

The opening paragraph of my autobiography (The first and only at this point).

As I age, there is increasingly no quarter for the mishaps, the non-conformities, the peculiarities of my misaligned psychological development, and the darkness on the horizon, the great conflict between my infantile-adolescent self-conception of mythic immortality must, for once and for all resolve itself with the quite real parameters of societal and physical environs. For what is the origins of this pathetic ailment, like a wounded dog tears into his flesh to dislodge the projectile imbedded deeply within, so to do I, tunnel my away into the recesses of the nothingness and howl in great laments at the moon of a wildly conceived nursery-anthropology.

[Richard Steele]

1. Run-on sentences. I like the feel, though.

[MrModerate]

2. Can you say "Bulwar Lytton?" n/t

[Zuni]

11. That is exactly what I was thinking

I have a book somewhere of one year's entries for the contest...it is one of the funniest books I own

[Maestro]

3. Intriguing

I see a deep introspection incoming.

[skypilot]

4. You have to get a life...

...before you can write an autobiograhpy--especially one with an opening paragraph like that.:evilgrin:

[expatriot]

9. This thread was half-joke/ half-desperation

[skypilot]

10. What are you half-desperate for?

Or is that explained in the paragraph?:dunce:

[Chalco]

5. Give me more

[expatriot]

7. Here are some paragraphs...

I have no clue as to the exact details to my calling, which would not be so terrible of a thing if it were not for my total dependence upon the notion -- which I have inoculated within my being for as long as I can remember -- that I have been called upon to do something beyond all proportion.

It is a curse to be so alienated from one’s own mortality and how, I lament, did such a curse befall me. Others live as lives should be lived, with no paralysis of removed analysis; no suspension of immediacy. I, on the other hand, have quite a time doing anything at all.

I would argue that I suffer from such indecision and this conundrum is one such conflict which both plagues and fuels my art; at once art is for the aesthetic purpose a great escape of the artist to create a carnival of beauty, a celebration of the beauty which can only be presented and honored by the artist, the saint who sees the full spectrum of the world in vivid depth unbeknownst, unsensed by the pedestrian observer.

This angelic, Edenic ascension of Beauty from the hellish despair of the injured soul, the tortured frame and being of the artist emerges from this hell. The artist remains deep within the pits, never to escape as a mother gives birth to youthful life but yet is barred from returning to youth herself.

[expatriot]

8. Oh, here is a paragraph (from separate writings)

Like the sick and lame fall to the back of the herd, we are the most vulnerable to the predators of the eternal night. But these beasts lurk within! The dragon-serpent dance in the shadows of our forever distant shore. Disenfranchised, lepers to the common order, banished from the fine line perimeter that circles the tribal fire. We pitch our tents on the periphery where the shadows are long and the frost of the uncharted night bites hard at our naked flesh. Poets are priests who dance alone, who preach to phantoms and wail from outside the shining dome of the collective structure. Revolutionaries are poets who engineer their psychosis into white flaming arrows.

[expatriot]

6. It will be illustrated with pictures of my navel.