Lost in his mind’s creation, newly found, paradoxical even to him, he’s frantic for an exorcism. Doesn’t know what to write anymore, maybe never did; such aimless passion, riling against a non-existent foe, tearing at itself for a meaning. Words no longer sea worthy, too deep in and under, all that’s left are emotions -irrational, chaotic, intangible- doing nothing to heal a phantom wound. How would it have been for the firsts finding themselves; curl up in a ball, all their up-to-then fears becoming trivial in face of realising they are afraid; did held back tears clog their heart, numb them. They have him. But he keeps writing because it’s something to do, hoping for inspiration salvation, willing his muse to arrive and his words to find their purpose. The rarest phenomenon in the universe, the most extraordinary product of nature, the pride of creation, a conscious -self conscious- mind; yet all around him there is only the ordinary, the mundane. His eyes shift and catch life; part of it all yet so alone. Eyes unfocused, mind weary, craving sleep but won’t allow himself the pleasure, his muse is yet to visit. He closes his eyes and sees music, light waves, the abstractness of creation, they open and his sight catches an upside down pendant. Heavy hands, heavier eyelids, and a heart heavier still; but his muse is yet to visit. His thoughts too absurd for writing, imagination too inexpressible, feelings even less. He envisages a supreme being, a single consciousness alone in all of existence, it IS existence. Utter solitude with not even the notion of company, a pure awareness with not even the notion of physicality. His eyes close
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