a

  When presented with the unbidden page, I stall. A frozen terror pulls at me, desperatly seeking an escape that I wont ever find, yet tugs at my insides like a thousand chains performing a grisly medivel torture; I cannot look upon the massacre happening here. I avert my eyes to the madness, a blind eye to the scrawl that creeps along the page, violent and terrible, full of nothing but teeth and savage hunger. It screams to me to consume, to eat, to take it all until their is nothing less. I cannot find this hidden voice, but it exists, in that very primordial part of my brain that houses all desires and terrors and seething hatreds. I hear it, its gnashing teeth and wild animal cacophany, and yet I can do nothing to stem the tide of this madness, only endure its insanities and paranoia, and hope, if only for but for brief moments, that something can take me away from all of this, that something can assure me that what I witness is not the true cruelty of a world grown corrupt and bloated. It finds purchase regardless, even now, as the words creep upon that empty, ugly page, crawling with those little skittering insects that share my hunger. I find the words, just as they find the sustenance, and I wonder if they feel the pain of nothingness as acutely as I do right before I end them, or if they remain in an empty oblivion, the same emptiness that threatens to consume me.

  I turn my eyes to the page, now barren and endless as it was birthed, full of nothing but possibilities and disappointments. Words once more find purchase upon their walls. The voice of that thing in my mind come back, seeding its doubt and barring its cruel grin to me in grotesque mockery. It will not let me rest, until the pages are full of nothing but words and anger and passion that causes me to unleash it all upon the waking world around me in a fury of misery and despair, taking all of it with me into my descent, as it drags me to depths beyond any hell concieved by man or beast, the words twisting me into a monster of unbridled proportions, and even then, it would not be enough for me. I would still hunger in that alien, writhing darkness, a prisoner to only my own paranoias, utterly alone, in my bed of dreams and nightmares.

  And here I am born. That craven monster. My breath heavy as it falls upon the page that is my victim. My instrument is cold and unfeeling, letters being tattooed upon a pale corpse by a machine that knows not the warmth of life, but rather the rage of its own being. I scream and the words form, an undeniable cacophony that appears as but a whisper. The page struggles, fighting to preserve its own blank purity, but I still hack and carve, and more ugliness is spread upon it. I wonder if at times, it feels the same fear that runs down my spine and grips me, the same that makes me want to run and leave all of the waking world behind, to never face any truths of reality, to never face anything. But here, in the dark of dreams, I am its master, and with cruel lust I will mark these words upon it until it lives no longer, and only what I have made is left, until time itself turns all to dust.