bastians dilemma

 If i were to start a novel i suppose it would begin like this.    
       Akin to pick up sticks, i would lay down letters and mold them around a gnostic momentum, that even Sisyphus would believe in, at least while the boulder is edging upward. And presuming that this still holographic helix could house a particular catharsis, than i could build a framework of phrases to momentarily suspend that indefinable electricity, until i could work out the ambiguities.
       Truth is i don't see why i need to write a novel. I am way too self absorbed to monumentalize the finite details of humans and our interactions, and am way to heavy handed to guide a viewer into that delicate intimacy. I can "read" people as it were, but that is only to gauge their motivations against my own, and i believe Sun Tzu covered those finer aspects already. I relish the inner dynamics revealed by great authors, and appreciate the ability of the page to reflect these observations, yet cannot in good conscious play a part in this betrayal.
       What kind of plot prey tell, can accommodate this most abstract yet certain of states i wish to portray? Since i am convinced that all writing is somewhat autobiographical, then i must confess that my most sublime moment occurred in a jail cell. I had just finished reading Steppenwolf by Hesse, and the charged air between my mind and the concrete walls and the pool of thinking that exists eternal, exploded into an infinite array of inspirations, popping like premature bubbles splashing me before i could own a single one. I literally had to ground my breathing to contain myself, and pushing the granola aside i grabbed a scrap of paper and the pencil i had hidden, and went about scribbling the silliest of hogwash that simply couldn't be deciphered. Those scribbles no longer exist but it seems that it summoned some sort of spectre that still lingers,and like Bastian and his moonchild, needs nothing more than a name.
     I could write the tale of a tormented artist, who is constantly opening doors for the mere excitement of exposure, but then feels barricaded by the circus of what he conjures. This artist would probably be a walking contradiction, as most of his head is held firmly in his studio of psychedelic computations, yet his body walks the same hard trodden paths that encompass friends,food stores and the rest of the fodder. (his soul is probably either playing possum or bombing the backtracks of our collective consciousness.)
   Surely our artist would be hermetic, in the quest for dissolution but more to our point in his isolation. Though surely he would have a circle of confidants, more than likely those would either exhibit a neurosis so severe that character development would lie in tatters, or they would be so extroverted and initiated into those before mentioned trodden paths, that they'd be better off left to dance with then to write about. Left alone to describe the artist alone with colored mud, medium and merit would reduce the need for dialogue, paints the scenery rather nicely, and if that plot were to be publicized,then shit i reckon this artist might be my  might guide.