The pen sits heavy in my hand, palms are sweaty and the page glares up at me with a resonance that has me shield my eyes and shake my head. I stare aimlessly down and struggle to bring the fountain head down with my squinted eyes. There’s a vibrating of tenuous pressure leaving me quivering with fear of what will take place when pen meets paper. I hesitate for only a brief moment and take aim assaulting the screaming bleached sheet. The scribbling is chaotic, misshapen but growing and gnashing at the words while they crawl away at what was once a clean piece. My heart sits heavy, presses against my ribs and agonizingly begs for more. It begins to take shape though, a resonating beam of self issues from the sheet and screams for more, hollers for a pedestal and burrows further in. What grows is not beauty, nor decrepit. It heaves with a shudder and breaths its first breath. Something becomes from nothing and takes forefront of the mind, the heart, and bleeds everlasting.
C’est La Vie
NOSCE TE IPSUM
Dream Dark Stories 