Slaying the Snurk, 8/21-23/12

Slaying the Snurk 8/21-23/12

I’ve been quite busy lately re-siding the garage while balancing out the income possibilities of the future. Work and more work, but factoring into it all, as always is the need to write, to carve out as much time as possible for the act that compels my every step forward. Why do anything if not to write, I tell myself. And lurking there in the alcove of this thought is the doubter, the Snurk who knows only the pessimism derived of the past, of the failures and the storied projects derailed. The Snurk will die. The Snurk will die, and it is I who will drive home the blade and twist it, too.

Killing the Snurk may involve some deviance, perhaps a little sneaky subservience, but definitely a strong will. The Snurk is evil and will resist when it perceives a sub versant element in within its domain. The Snurk is an identity that knows me personally, intimately. It understands me even as I type these letters, comprehends what it is I’m trying to do. The Snurk lurks not below but within everything I do, The Snurk is the leech that bloats itself upon the blood of my life. It knows what I need to do and it sniggers even as I form the word need, even as I ponder the following sentence, the next minute, the day that by it’s very course will include the knowledge of being pursued and laid down in the end with nothing of substance being accomplished.

Accomplishment is perhaps what I equate with writing. Laying something of value down for the future to consider. Writing is a way of proving to my self that I lived for some reason, that in fact there was a purpose to the mistake of my birth. By writing what I perceive to be important, I can peer into the layers of these topics to discover why I think they matter, perhaps to discover that what I concern myself with is merely dust. How is it anyway. that anything holds substance? Why do we keep telling ourselves the same stories, repeating them like Mynah birds afraid of their own voice. We mimmic until we don’t know ourselves anymore; am I to break this mold for myself? 

Killing the Snurk is killing the thing that I mimic, for it is this thing that creates the unachievable standard that dissolves my will and dulls the edge I need to write. The snurk is the nemesis whose nature I share, and so killing it is killing part of myself, but which part? 

The Snurk is the part of me that has tied up the muse and and is acting as gatekeeper, the guard who allows in only the most familiar of guests and refuses entry to those who may bear surprising and unnatural gifts. Why has the Snurk usurped this position of power over me? How can I free the muse? What is it in my nature that has allowed this happen? Where must I go to find the tools to irradiate this wretched bane? Or is it that I have the tools? Had them all along? When will I use them?

Th Snurk is the part of me that feeds my soul with garbage. He seeks out the most destructive, malign forces to temper and derange my efforts at writing and wields them with a skill honed through years, The Snurk is the part of me that must be destroyed for my creative self to move forward. The Snurk must go.