I was just starting to be all proud of myself for maintaining this thing when I went through another phase of feeling really unmotivated and uninspired. Mostly because i was being guilt tripped about not getting more done, which usually spurs in me a depression inspired sense of apathy. And now that I’m feeling really motivated and really uplifted, I don’t have the kind of computer access I need to really just fuck the shit out of this blog. I’m hopefully gonna fix that soon but for now, whatever.
Read this prologue to this thing I kinda wanna write and if you like it I’ll tell you more about the story.
A wraith-like man wanders through a wood. He moves like a lost ghost, with an aimlessness that belies the fervent purpose of his presence. His limbs sway as he moves, as if he has no need for them, his body an afterthought compared to his agenda. Coming almost lazily upon the scattered remains of an abandoned camp, he pauses at the edge of what was once a fire pit, looking down at it with his head at an extreme and awkward angle. He effortlessly slides down into a deep, low lunge, and as the fingertips of his hanging left hand reach the ground he digs them into the campfire ashes with slow, violent force. He smiles the lopsided, wild eyed grin of deeply rooted insanity as he feels what he had hoped to feel; the sensation of his skin burning from hot, hastily covered coals. He does not remove his left hand, but instead brings his right up to his bent leg to make an open fist at the top of his knee. He shifts his down turned grip and as he slowly, slowly pulls his hand up in a wide arc, an earsplitting grinding, creaking, scraping sound resounds in the wood, and as his hand comes away from the top of his knee, so too does a long white blade, sliding out from his very flesh as if drawn from a sheath. He completes the arc of his movement and the tip of the blade comes to rest on the ground beside his outstretched leg, a few drops of blood running down its edge to drip onto the trampled grass. It reflects no ray of moonlight and is pale and bleached and stark against the dark of night. After his one graceful motion his shoulders slump and his arms hang again as if half forgotten, and his grin twitches with apparent madness. If anyone had not fled that place in panic and had been there to watch, they would have thought he disappeared, for he takes off at a run at that crazed, low angle with inhuman speed, his chest a mere foot from the ground and the tip of his blade dragging in the dirt, and the edges of him seem to blur and disperse into blackness. But there is no one there to see, and all they would have born witness to is the sudden spray of sparks and burning coal as he throws himself into the only thing that could come close to love in his twisted heart;