My kind of oeuvre

For me every perfect story told accommodates a murky spot. And I call that beauty. I repeat, every story sprinkles a dust of cloud somewhere around the narration. To cite the easiest instance, think of the overrated Cinderalla, or Beauty and the Beast. Isn't it more exciting to get into jarring and chaotic sections than to loiter in a monotonous story which is nothing but lifelessness? An exceptional storyteller might conceal with flairs from pillar to post but I would still smell the paint, especially in elements like metaphors and elaborations. I think it's absolutely fine to bare that beauty of gloom. It's on the rugged and twisted plots we subconsciously attain pleasure and mark the silver lining at the end of the day which is a meaningful quest I suppose.
If I'm allowed to narrate in a volume's stretch, I would definitely put it straight that any avid participant could chew, swallow and digest. I hate concealers. I'm not sure how many would be in accord with me, but I must let that out before any interrogations come on my way. So if I am to narrate, my words might sound aggressive, sometimes colourless, and sometimes hang up abruptly in between, but that's a nature I'm designed with. I'm unschooled and I'm in a process desperately trying to understand the art from many. As overt as I sound, I don't manufacture perfectionism in any of my pieces and therefore I must apprise that I might fail terribly some days and zone out by sitting nonchalantly on a chesterfield sipping chamomile with pinky up because anytime when my nerves switch to dysfunctional mode I run after the Victorian mood. It brings alleviation. It prompts me contemplate on the things I've overlooked. I can't assure when and how I'll retrieve to the pages spilling cheap ink, or whether I'll ever continue from where I left, but if I do I believe that, that arrival would install another inspiration. It may lose its correlation with the former but I guess that'll be a new piece of treat.
I admire writers who can elucidate the deadliest conflict and the most ecstatic terrain in a pattern where your olfactory nerve can distinctly perceive bloodshed and fresh soil from the words. If only time has the power to allow me meet the finest writers of this planet earth (perhaps, once more in the case of some) I'm getting transposed to a whole new atmosphere without a question, where I could even interface with Aurora Borealis and Australis.
Must I mention that the finest writers (to me) are souls who can synthesize incomaptible constituents in bringing out an exquisite taste and who can unlock the ways of kneading the elements to give a perfect dough that could be consumed even before sliding into the oven. Even if baked, you don't need any spreads or dip. It's very full and rich in it's simplicity. That's the oeuvre I'm anxious about. They make me restless. Restlessness keeps my tinker awake. I believe, the disoriented picture is the new thirst for some participants like me. I cannot wait to fill bloated with the aforementioned prime artistry.