A Writer’s Soul, the madness within … continued
The writer, with a few blood soaked pages, sits with his head buried in his arms. The look of exhaustion hangs over him like a dark rain cloud over a mountain meadow. He has written very little. However, it’s very apparent, he’s toiled heavily over the few words that appear on the pages.
His shoulders are burdened with the weight of the world … his world. It appears darkened and dismal, cracked and broken. The muscles in his shoulder are tense, hard as rock, and defined, yet they look ready to collapse under the intense pressure he bears.
The writer has poured his soul out. giving drink to all who would listen. His vulnerability is not masked or hidden, nor is his heart, that he wears on his sleeve.
In the writer’s mind, running wildly and free, are the lives and adventures of hundreds of characters. They visit faraway lands, travel through space and time, fall in love, lust for beauty, battle fiercely, kill with a bloodthirsty appetite and sail away on clouds of gold and silver. All the while, demons, past and present, haunt his memory and shroud his imagination. They torment and imprison his fantasies.
What is this madness?!
Instead of rejoicing in the magnificence of fairy-tales and fables, he mourns the death of ideas. The blood that fills the pages in front of him are memoirs of his personal, internal battles. They are pleas for help and relief from the shackles that hold his soul.
While his life may be a declared an open book, it really isn’t. A battle rages deep within his soul, like a roaring bonfire. Turmoil fills the caverns like a dark heavy mist.
Yet, through it all, he seeks nothing more than to lift his fellow man. He carries a world on his shoulders, filled with the cares and worries of others. All the while, he reaches out to be noticed. He seeks for love, and affection, and longs for relevance in an irrelevant world.
With blood on his hands, and sweat pouring from his brow, he has no choice but to carry on. Victory escapes his grasp, yet the jaws of defeat still wait a little ways off. He cannot turn back, only forward.
With a sigh, and a heavy heart, he picks his pen back up …
*Read the first post in this narrative, entitled: “A Writer’s Soul“