Fell On His Pen

I’ve decided to not write about a soldier gone insane torturing babies to death because they were the children of his enemies. That’s too boring and reflects a perverted understanding of the nature of war. War is violent, but the reality of the matter has also filled it with boredom. Hollywood would never let you know this much. Bloodshed is exciting while waiting in the encampments isn’t. Besides that, I’ve written enough shock horror over the years.

Instead, I’ve decided to write about myself and my life for a change. Writing seems to be all I know these days. It is all I have known for a very long time. I used to write some pretty good stuff. Legends brought to life. Now my brain seems to be dry and swimming in dust rather than creative juices.

That’s what years of relentless obsession will do to you. Writing is miracle-working. An author breathes life into a fictional reality by birthing it in his mind and then nurturing and bleeding his life force into his creation. Miracle-making is a work of the gods and to become a god, one must lose their sanity.

Left unchecked, the pen becomes the author’s worst nightmare. It has the power to drive anyone insane with heavenly inspiration and divine powers. The ink will corrode your mind and take over your nervous system, forcing you to spill it over and over until you can no longer spill any. In my case, it didn’t even end there. The demon sunk its claws so deep into my brain that my entire life has turned into a single writing spree.

Divine revelation after divine revelation.

Impossible things crept into the depths of my thoughts. Magical places, horrible beings, abstract ideas, and things that I could not even dream to explain using words flooded my psyche. Slowly growing, patiently taking up more and more of my mental space until there was no place for anything else.

Eventually, the endless stream of impossible things in my mind became a monolith made up entirely of words. A gigantic monstrosity that took over my body and forced me to birth it into creation.

I was a prisoner inside my body as the titanic abomination took hold and force-fed me my obsession with spilling ink onto sheets of paper. I have lost control of my motor skills. Unable to move, I couldn’t breathe, nor could I flee this terrible disease that had complete control of me.

In no time, all I ever did was write. I’ve lost control of what I was writing. I was writing day and night. Unable to stop the process. Almost as if a parasite had taken over me. I wouldn’t stop. Not to eat, not to sleep, not to do anything. There was no end to the hunger of the beast that demanded I write it into existence. The more I wrote, the bigger its shadow grew. I became smaller, thinner, weaker against its influences. The hours turned to days, the days into weeks, and the weeks into months. Still, there was never an end in sight. The shadow kept growing larger and larger, taking over a vaster part of my life, and yet it never seemed to become satisfied.

Eventually, the ink had run out, but that was not the end of my possession. My writing up to this point hasn't satisfied the demon just yet. It needed more. A solution came to mind quickly. Rusty organic ink!

That dye was costly, however, and there weren’t much of that around four liters. I ran out of that quickly, and when I did, I could finally sleep again. Having been unable to sleep in months because of the endless nightmares the demon had forced me to endure every time I dozed off.

When I awoke again, the demon had disappeared, finally.

That did not mean that I was free, not at all. I am still not free. Now, yet again, a malignant shadow looms over my head. A different shadow.

When I awoke, I saw an angel in front of me. Its form, that of an iridescent form of black flames and lights rotating and twisting inside a blinding smoke screen made up of the screaming victims of perdition. Its wings mortal sins. The angel was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A mortifying beauty the likes of which no living man had ever seen and lived to tell the tale. It mesmerized me, filling me with joy the likes of which are unknown to man. The angel’s purpose was to take me to my next destination. However, it never did. My writing and obsessive dedication had a less than the desired effect on the angel. It refused to take me away.

It turned out that even cosmic forces cannot deal with the disease that had made me waste myself into an anthropomorphic pile of dust.

The angel condemned me to stay where I am. I am free to do as I please, as long as I write something every once in a while. That’s where the problem lies, however. I was perhaps unintentionally cursed with a fate worse than death. I cannot stand daylight anymore, nor can I walk among my fellow humans because what has become of me is nothing but a pale sack of skin and bones.

The sun burns my delicate skin, unbearable pains riddle every inch of my body. Sickening sounds and contortions of my form accompany every movement of mine. All of that would expose anyone in my presence to untold amounts of horror. If there was anyone around me.

I spend my days staring at the abyss, hoping it will stare back at me. Begging to be swallowed by the creatures that roam within my nightmares, which now accompany me throughout the hours of the day, for I no longer sleep. Having so much time on my hands has done me no favors as I have gotten irritated with the sound of my own heartbeat. Thus, I tore out the organ responsible for my annoyance. I still remember the sound it made when I chucked it angrily at the wall.

It wouldn’t stop beating.

I can only find solace now in writing. The demon is no longer here. I am no longer suffering at the hands of my terminal disease, but spilling the rusty organic ink has become a force of habit.

I often wonder what will happen first? Will the angel of the pit get sick of me and finally throw me into the depths of its kingdom, or will my body disintegrate into actual dust?