Nightfall. Oh, the whisper of the breeze combing through the d(r)ying leaves.... Such a simple task. Point the cursor. Click on the mouse. Miracle in a laptop. Repeated again and again and again. And so the fruits fade into non-being - stories, poems, novel manuscripts, play sketches. I delete them all, each and every one. There is no back up. There are no print-outs. The Recycle Bin flushes them out. Strange. I feel nothing within Gotterdammerung. I had always thought that losing those pieces would be the worst catastrophe to ever befall me. But now they mean nothing. For what purpose were they written? I wonder to myself. Fame? Entertainment? Self-fulfilment? To show off my abilities? No matter. They are dead and gone now, some remnants inhabiting FB accounts long-abandoned - thanks to hacking. The darkness is all there is now, the stark reality that one is nobody special but just a bumbler like the rest. Maybe with the morning I will come to my senses - or whatever that nonsense means. But I am in full control of my faculties. I am simply bidding goodbye to this dumb quest of writing. Ah, I have always hated it in me and in some people I meet. All that pain, all that effort, so little rewarded or even acknowledged, all for what? It is the hour to announce liberation, to shut the door on all the Quixotings and et cetera. Go gently into the good night.... But there is an ace in the hole! There are some copies in Hadis possession! Well, no matter. I am off to delete them all and have my peace. Or a piece of that at least. Oh, the rustle of trees dancing at midnight. No frogs croak. A phase of my life has come to an end and I cannot mourn over it. My eyes are dry like the smile on my face. Le coeur a ses raisons, mon cher Rousseau. Mais cest comme ca. Cest la vie. A tout temps. Selah.
Posted on: Wed, 29 Oct 2014 23:44:07 +0000
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