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The Writer's World
It is my world. It is one of endless possibilities, the purity of empty paper and the accomplishment of one full of words. I can paint monsters and heroes, maidens and villains, towering buildings of majestic proportions and shitty slums of drug lords. There is ultimate war, there is inner peace. All the world encompassed in the mind of a young man, rolled out in dreams, wishes, musings, and assignments. If the school system does anything it merely encourages this growth of ideas, this wealth of untapped glory residing in each and every person. The mind is a great treasure chest waiting to be cracked, one must simply find one’s own code, and each is inexplicably different.
A vast universe of detail is what I hold the key to. It is one of intrigue, sex, valor, violence, and evil. How to use that key? Ah that is the difficulty indeed. For some reason the images do not transfer as nicely as I would have them, or perhaps I get to consumed with the story to let the truth come forth. It is who I am that is struggling to come out, what I believe and hold as the ultimate of the human condition.
But is that what I do now? Trying to explain out the burning desires I feel raging within
my soul, banging on the door to my consciousness, breeding and brooding monsters of
thought and intrigue. To write! Ahh to write the unexplainable to capture the mood of moods, the night pensiveness of a teen, the hunger to do the best I can with nothing but my own mind, to see where the delving of my intellect will take me, onwards and outwards into a spiraling metamorphosis of self.
As the character becomes whole, or hits a wall, or ceases to exist, does that reflect on the author? Or does it merely relay his skill? Perhaps it is a bit of both, an intertwining magnificence of skillful development and reflective seeds, sown throughout works by the man’s psyche. With this idea in mind let me relay to you a dream, the natural author in all of us, the creative desire sprung forth in the subconscious mind, the body fulfilling the ancient demand for the production and creative flow of the imagination.
The setting is a dark room. Four or five bodies stand idle in the center, holding weapons, WWI style rifles with bayonets attached. They mutter among themselves, cursing now and then with coarse voices, scorn and mall intent can be surmised. Their faces are not seen, and the dark glimmer of the room adds to their dark personae. They look wicked indeed.
I am hiding on the far side of the room, I have with me a few comrades, armed with knives, we are suited up in full battle gear. The air is primitive, and the oxygen is stifling. We are scared shitless. We are teens fresh out of high school, and have no military training. Some vital demand had sent us into the heart of enemy territory to save our country. From what we have no idea. It is my high school buddies and me, alone facing a sinister enemy.
“We can’t do it.” He is afraid. And I do not blame him, not for an instant. I am filled at once with a fellowship for these boys at my side. We face imminent danger, life threatening, piss inducing danger. I glance over at his dirt stained face as we huddle on the ground just beyond the enemy. I move closer, my mouth next to his ear and mutter,
“We must.” The feeling is almost impossible to capture. I know it is a dead fact that I have to kill. I have to kill without mercy and with a ruthless blade. Moving forward I again gaze at the forms in the dark, emblems of the opposing forces, forces to be wrecked by our side.
I am entranced with the need for survival, the fellowship of my buddies, the anger at the threat, and the anger for my country. The knife is clasped tightly in my hand, and I feel my face contort into a sneer of putrid hate. Those men would pay. Urging my partners forward, I scream the command with a vein popping cry.
“ATTACK!” I leapt from the hiding spot and descended upon my unsuspecting victims with howling rage. The scene pans out and I see myself in slow motion. The knife is flailing at the dark forms; I stab again and again and again. They were the enemy of my people, the ones who made my buddies cower with terror; I was rendering their chests to the night air, eliminating the threat to my people. My face is one of the purest brutality and most searing rage. Hate is displayed clearly through the mixture of spittle, blood, and grime.
The descending knife glints with red and silver steal.
It is a vivid reality.
The red is vibrant, shining.
I go into frenzy and my fellow soldiers follow suit, maiming and screaming through the cursed night ai. The forms now lay on the ground, motionless, done, but I won’t quit, the enemy is before me helpless, and I destroy it, continue destroying it, preventing it from coming back. It would not attack us anymore, we would have our lives. This was the end. Screaming with uncontrollable shaking emotions I stabbed again and again, until I was torn away by my closest companion, the one who couldn’t face the necessity of kill alone.
I gaze down at the enemy, the dark, sinister evil, from the arms of my soldiers. Suddenly they are not demons; they are boys, like us. We descended upon them like a fisher cat on ducklings. They never stood a chance. Their faces gaze sightlessly at the roof above, every bit as dirt stained and fearful as we were. Humanity cried out from their mutilated forms, and I began to weep.
What is it that pits man against man, boy against boy? What selfishness and destructive forces have power enough to drive the moral and loving human to kill another for a “just cause?” Death is created by man, and is man’s art, but it is an art despised and rejected by the mind and soul, an art that causes young men to weep.
And this is all authors aye? This is the goal, to write the definition of one’s existence into words, permanent, unchangeable, and unquestionable words, that is to say, “This is me! Read me, and understand my self.”