by Mark Antony Rossi
I begin the process by excavating jagged pieces of memory from the dark cavern of the mind. It demands a healthy measure of strength to string together fragments of the deep past. Images and meanings do not easily surrender and require determined patience.
The search for truth is an arduous task unsuited for pristine sensibilities. It often takes a writer willing to create a fictive canvas wide enough to capture the unrecognizable shape of reality.
What began as a fervent journey eventually slides towards a furious struggle to reel in the mental stowaways hidden in the frontal lobe. That sacred cerebral territory lit up like a battlefield.
Every noun a neuron. Every adverb an adversary. Every metaphor a metaphysical reaction. It’s not poetic to admit but brain chemistry plays a bigger role in Art than many are willing to embrace.
The muse is related to madness whether we like it or not. And in that chaotic frontal lobe, the mysteries of our identity may be sorted out in the fictional format. Thus the act of writing is akin to religious confession where unburdening one’s soul is a weigh station towards a mystic destination.
If a final analysis is possible it lies between understanding our conscious self and our intangible talent. What triggers a cascade of insight. What navigates talent to precisely stage emotion. And how unanswerable is the pursuit of truth when it essentially relies on the partially false narrative of fiction. This literary conundrum is but the first hurdle a writer must traverse to remain connected to reality and themself.
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