The Writer

But hey who doesn't have a bad day?

The artist. No friends to speak of, no audience for his works. He can't help but feel that the point has long sense vanished, that his carefully crafted output is just a crumbling statue built and placed in a dark room with no doors. He struggles strongly at first but fatigue wears on him and fills his body with a leaden weight. Looking down only as down is the reflecting pool and all outside space is obliterated; imagined only as something clearly unreal.

To continue to create seems meaningless but adds meaning as well. To create for oneself despite no interest. How to keep from clawing at raw wounds that fester through, perhaps a lack of talent, perhaps a lack of ambition. He only knows his craft and all other things are alien.

The outside world rejects him, no place molds to his contours, no person seeks his company. Despised by those that notice, but noticed only by a very few he wanders like a fading ghost through a world peopled by no ally of his. Thoughts of death in obscurity pick at him. He tries to shut out all dreams and drain the grayness despite no cut. He can only look out through tinted glass and remember only fantasies of a time never to come despite being so far in the past already.

And so the self indulgent poem, the refuge of all the self pitying creators, lays itself out at his feet and he lets it be. And nobody even takes the time to mock him. All is normal.

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