My Heart Pumps Ink, Not Blood

March 14, 2017

I do not prefer the six or twelve shooter, the M-14 rifle or the M1 Garand. Too many are there to name the amazingly effective pharmaceuticals, including the human tranquilizers, animal toxins, noxious chemicals, and household cleaning products. I do want for these, though many of the myriad instruments listed work with great efficacy, eliciting the desires or response from she who wields them. I instead choose the the pen. Any pen will do, though I prefer one with black ink, as blue to me does not possess the seriousness or cynicism that must be conveyed in my stories. The pen can chisel away the unwanted or offer the temperament and necessary intensity, which might be required. For each killing is unique. No murder is quite like the other, though there are similarities between them on some occasions.
It must be I that wields the pen and not the other way around. This relationship is one-sided, and must be orchestrated by me and me alone, lest I should sacrifice the personal nature of this hauntingly ferocious arrangement between ink and instrument, instrument and ink. A gravely serious one-way, unreciprocated, unrequited, and unbalanced, nearly schizoaffective performance of language that is never heard nor displays no sound, which instead traces sanguinated strokes, marks, scribbles, and inscriptions amidst other fanatical displays of power and allegiance, ego and lust, eloquent rage and fetishized insanity. Each pedantic matter of the hand, each stroke of my pen, I take another life.
Murder after murder, the writer counts each kill, committing every instance to memory, and on some accounts she might even bring home a small treasure. The pen master takes this together with any artifacts or materials that could tie her method to her execution. At last amid the company of myself, I revel in my vain glory and perfervid excite for the acts I committed, rather than the acts I chose to omit.
It's in these brief moments, when the speaking ceases, and the company is lax, now discovered is an easing and peaceful contentment.
If only for those special moments of social anxiety and dissociation, when at last the spoken language holds no greater power than can be wielded under the grand spells, prose or free-verse, taking up the pen can offer to its bearer some sort of resolve.






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