WHAT PORTENDED1 IS DOING
There is a reason humanity is its own deathtrap
Threatening blackness tore at his soul, digging into the smallest places, where light used to breathe. The pen upon which he so mightily depended on for his success ran dry of inspiration and angst with which to write. This blankness clearly outpaced ordinary writer's block. It's home originated inside a source outside of his physicality, outside of his awareness. Every waking morning meant acidic anxiety clawing its way inside his bowels. And he could not discern a reason why undefined anxiety was happening.
What can a writer do but write what he knows? And what if he knows is infinitely limited?
Bringing his pen to paper and commanding it to express his uncertainty ran the equivalent of bringing back the dead. Not even a pagan ritual could save him now. Not that he would ever attempt one, but the very thought echoed an emptiness which resonated within his chest like a rock thrown into an open garbage canister. His emotions shoved a realization into his angry mind.
There is ultimately nothing to share as a human being, but everything to feel.
He slammed his fists onto the desk, demanding it speak a word of encouragement to him or anything to spurn new wisdom, a story, a principled yarn, anything.
Reference books, writing tools, his computer and a few paperclips and highlighter pens danced to the floor with a mocking sense of hilarity, as if to say -- get a load of this loser.
His brain spewed the first understandable and concrete realization in weeks --
-- Writing is the death of those who feel the need to offer Truth to the greedy, deceptive world. Many simply do not care and will only acknowledge truth's value if it means it’s profitable. --
"There, there...I can expose that reality," he screamed to his discolored walls and personal library.
The cold stare of many books, rich with titles of philosophy, history, psychology, occultism, religious texts and more reminded him his wisdom had been already been communicated for many centuries before him. His own books rested among them, as if to represent an irrelevant lone voice among them. His arrogant righteousness needed to be subordinated once again.
“Damn yourself, Brian,” he chastised, “Get it through your head. Nothing is new. Nothing is ever new. Humanity gets reminded of its damaging ways with every generation before being ignored again. What good is another voice in the mix? Humanity is in love with its own mediocrity. Get over it!”
His head, arms, hands fell as he sat in his leather chair, despondent for a chance, any chance for redemption and credibility in a cruel, dark world of insisting upon its mediocrity and over-powering greed.
He lit a candle and spoke the words of a spell he read the night before last.
A lone shadow passed over him with intense silence.
Not even a whimper escaped his lips as his existence meshed into the walls of his home, where no one would seek his voice or written words ever again.
|Member Since:||Jan 03, 2018|
|Last Login:||Aug 19, 2018|
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