I created things with my words.
Things that changed me and changed other people.
Things of absolute beauty.
Things of stunning connectivity and yesness.
These words crafted evidence of my divinity.
They proved that I was brilliant. In black and white for all to see.
For me to see.
To which I could point over and over again in defense of my everything.
See? There it is! I did that. I made that.
All these things are works of art that make me real and right.
And gave me firmament. A staked claim upon Justified.
To these things I would cling as if they were so precious, so one of a kind, so impossible to replicate,
For indeed they took my breath away
In natural wonder that such wonders could come out of me.
Out of one so suspect.
Out of one so convex.
It was in the clinging, the clutch, the craving to marvel in perpetuity that I ceased to grow.
Ceased to know.
Ceased to show.
And so these things
These splendid things
wrought of my love, my despair,
my ache and gnaw and claw,
My triumphant hold upon the tails of dragons and demons and fairy god-witches,
They became no less brilliant
no less spectacular
but nonetheless caused a stunting of growth in the wake of all their acclaim.
A backup. A strangulation.
And so I had to burn them to the ground.
In one blaze. Everything into the fire.
No keepsakes, no posterity; everything into the fire.
All proof of glory and worth and giftedness into the flames until it was gone.
Ashes and void.
Smoke and absence.
And then I had to stand there without any of it
and see and feel and claim anew
everything I believed about me before I started the fire.
And new words followed.
And I remembered that woman with black hair
Facing down an army of reproach.
Who from her castle wall
eyes upon her and then lifted her dress to show the naked place between her legs.
And she screamed
That she had it within her power, by her very design and birthright, to create not just human life but all the magic
and the majesty
Of human life manifested tenfold within her issue
All without a castle
and without a kingdom.
And I remembered that like her
The power of my words lies not in the edifice that they were once written
But in the continuance of their renewal.