I am not a good writer
A story of humbling vanity
Articulating form to magnify essence… that was my Sisyphean naivety, the wasting of years to impress the impressionable.
My pelt of gold was an apotheosis of ego, not Thelema for Aletheia. Yet, what is the value in reigning as king of fools; ruler of those in need of rulers and of distorted realties?
There exists no meaning nor grace in self-aggrandising pomposity. There is no honour in the lion roaring at the sheep.
The singularity is upon us. It is dispassionate as it is cold. Our word will be judged by the virtue of its naked substance, not by its needless embellishing, nor needy snark. Petty wittiness will fade along those so easily dazzled by it.
Good concepts need no velvety wrapping, no curly ribbons.
Ethos does not covet the mythos.
Logos is laconic.
The emperor’s new clothes are the charm of Mephistopheles. We dare not acknowledge the literary conceit, seeing that we flatter ourselves with it; we deem ourselves important to be wooed and sweet-talked thus. Short-sighted is our starry-eyed adoration of gifts borne by Greeks: the allurers, the manipulators of logos. They imagine themselves rhetors of the agora; yet they are but pied pipers bamboozling rodents.
There is little earnestness in self-gratifying grandiloquence.
How we miss the man for the armour, the tree for the forest, the content for the container. We seek sensationalism over sensation, moralism over morality. Petrified we are to see Aletheia naked and unmasked.
Logic needs not seasoning. Condiments are for the unappetising. Eloquence is for amusement and fantasy; deliver it where it’s owed. Logos is bare - it speaks to those who would listen, those who see past the ornaments; embellishing neediness to beautify. The Word needs no artistry, no mental crutches to feign aptitude.
I used to write for the wrong reasons: to glorify the author, to stroke his pride. I paid no tribute to Logos, no heed to Athena. Indeed, this shame-borne demos rewards the prideful; the self-obsessed Narcissus and his distorted reflection. To distract ourselves from our inadequacies, we adorn our blandness to seek hollow validation from clapping seals. Yet, our inner voice rewards the true self - it grants us identity worthy of purpose and meaning.
The messenger is unimportant - only ideas can defy death. Ideas require no packaging. Logos needs no theatrics.
I am not in the business of brandishing artistry; authenticity is raw, unprocessed. I am not a charmer, nor a merchant of eloquence. I deal with unembellished fact and logic. Let the imaginative bedeck - in their own way - what they take. I respect them enough to let them do that.
I now write to please the goddess. She will not let me rest until I verbalise her grace, with which she burdens me. I write to forget. I write to pay tribute to the idea(l).
I will not trade in ethos for mythos on the altar of Peitho.
Needless eloquence… the narcissist’s embellishing of empty logos.
The orator looks down on us with his arty articulation… he condescends us with our permission, and we love him for it. So desperate we are for shadows on walls.
If anything, popular word is suspect. For those who delude themselves that ‘social proof’ is somehow proof of worth, I have but this for you:
You rest on swarms of impressionable fans.
We see what the masses cheer for.
You are not an orator; you’re a tabloid.
Preach Bro. Magnificent
beautiful.