There is a familiar tension in the air. I can sense it, feel it. It is palpable, scintillating, pressing ever closer until there is nothing else but it. A herald of what is to come. A harbinger of another, greater sense. We are old friends, this tension and I. I cultivate it, nourish it, much as it does me. Our relationship is one of balance; a symbiosis, if you will. As my furor deepens, as it expands, so too does this tension. It goads me to action, relentless in its onslaught. Its presence an ever tautening string. And as that string tightens, as the tension rises to its crescendo, I work all the more furiously, feverish in my artistic designs. I must be careful, however, not to allow my anticipation to overwhelm me, as it so often threatens to do. Rushing the event would tarnish the outcome and belittle the effort.
There are many distasteful and bothersome things to exist in this world, but none of them are as miserable as fruitless labor, a wasted effort. This is why equilibrium must be maintained. Because it is when the tension becomes nearly unbearable, when all else has faded away, that the mind obtains clarity and true creativity is found. Ah, I cannot even begin to describe the exhilaration of it. Truly a sensation to have! Yet, that is merely one small part. Once the tension has gone, something far more delightful trails in its wake. A shift occurs, instantaneous and fleeting. To blink may be to miss it altogether. It is a subtle enough change, nothing more than a fracture really, but one which articulates more than a hundred thousand words could ever convey.
Very few are given this gift- this ability to behold the splintering of a soul- and even fewer fully embrace it. They do not recognize its value. They do not understand what can be reaped from it. But I know its worth, its purpose. That is why I wait and why I watch. I dare not dream of missing it when it transpires.
See? It is there. And it is gone. Like the snap of a finger, the moment has passed swiftly as that. The metamorphosis made. The light has begun to diminish. A spirit once filled with radiance and vitality now descends into a realm of despondency and nothingness. Soon there will be nothing to remain. Darkness will devour all within. And from that abyss, beauty. It is a glorious sight to behold. To bear witness to a devastation so poignant. To see the flame snuffed out yet be rekindled as shadow. It is what I yearn for, what I relish in. For these are my closely guarded treasures, you see. It is these moments that define my artistry. They are what finds me in my dreams, what incites me into action, what I seek to recreate in terrifying grandeur. They are mine to do with what I will.
Alas, the world does not yet comprehend such genius. Their eyes are closed to the majesty inherent in this blackened path. I tried once before to open them, to give sight to a blinded society; instead, my heart and soul were ripped from their moors, wiped from existence to appease the morally biased collective. The rending of my masterpiece was their sacrifice, a frivolous attempt to uphold the light. Countless hours of painstaking, thoughtful creation destroyed for nothing more than the inane pursuit of justice. This time, though, this time shall be different. My mistakes of the past became my lessons, and I have learned those lessons well. Eventually, the world will come to acknowledge the resplendency of my work- of my garden and its wonder- but that time is not yet nigh. There is more still to prepare, more to be done. My garden is not yet complete. True, it thrives once more, but it lacks the final touches worthy of a magnum opus.
This will soon be remedied, and my patience well rewarded. Every expenditure, every toil and struggle, every bit of pain I have endured will then be given meaning. All will have not been in vain. What was taken from me all those years ago will be the impetus for my ultimate fantastical design, and they the machinations. I eagerly await the day those two are before me, as terrified and helpless as when I last possessed them. Those children once scarred now adults to be shattered at my whim. How marvelous to think of it!
Indeed, they cannot run from me any longer. This game of hide and seek we have played must draw to a close. I know where they live, where they work, their routines. I know their weaknesses. Their friends and families will not be able to keep them from the retribution at hand. The time for that has come and gone. Those illusions of safety and comfort, the ivory towers they have constructed around themselves, will crumble into dust. And I will stand atop their ruins as master and conqueror. There will be no escape. There will be no hope. Only vengeance. They will remember what it is to fear and despair. That shall be my inspiration.
Soon, very soon now, my time will come. One day more is all that is required. Then I will be ready. My vision shall, at long last, be brought to life; a masterstroke for the ages!