Tom Ramcigam (magicmarmot) wrote,
Tom Ramcigam
magicmarmot

I am an introvert.

You may not expect that if you know me, or if you read this. I seem verbose, prolific in quantent if not content, exposed, open. I can be genuinely effusive and ebullient at times.

But the real part is that I'm shy and quiet, and I keep hidden most of the time. When I need to repair, I go inside, within myself, withdraw.

Yet here, I write. Profusely.

I think it's because I choose to express things in words, written, typed, instead of images most of the time. Words give me a huge palette to work from. I can play with them like a child plays with blocks, building imaginary castles and peppering them with dragons and creatures in the catacombs, or I can lay them out straight as rails with the boring and mundane details of the day, but in either case, they are mine. I have control. I can write what I choose, be it fantasy, fiction, or fact. It gives me a sense of domain, of richness, of being king.

To that end, I try to write every day. Some days are harder than others. There are many days when I feel devoid of content, everyday and mundane, boring. And to try to find something in those days, some undiscovered gem that is worthy of words, those are the times that feel like panning for gold in some long-forgotten sewer.

I look at artists who play with visual media, photographs or paintings or sculptures of things dark and disturbing, and I feel a pang of envy that they have captured a bit of the essence of the things that live in my dreams, that they have done so without committing a single word to paper, that they have taken the pixels or bits of clay or metal or flesh and transformed them into a depiction of a nightmare, and I am here, a humble peddler of words, cheaper by the hundred.

But then I consider what it would be like if I couldn't write, if all I had was the eye of the photographer or the brushes of the painter and I had to describe the things inside my head to get them out, and what torturous, hellish prison it could be.

I can let my demons out to play. I can conjure them into existence, let them run around in the fertile fields of imagination, coddle them until they're old enough to invade the spaces of your mind, and let them loose to wreak their havoc among the populace, well-behaved and docile (or at least as well behaved and docile as monsters are wont to be).

It's not all succulent flesh and rosy gumshoes. Most of the time it's dirt under the nails, grime between my toes, funny bumps on the skin and unfortunate indigestion. The harsh light of day enters in, the pan has no gold but massive piles of shit, and the bodies buried in the basement are starting to smell.

(And to think I have a hard time finding a date.)

I choose to expose these parts of my life rather than keep them secret. I don't know if I could tell you why, but I think it's attached to an attempt to become virtual, to break down the barriers between the real and the aetherial.

Perhaps to achieve immorality.
Tags: wordplay, writing
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