"Evil Amusement" BY;Fjm

To discover the world is not my intention.  I have no time to look back on my many failures, but only to look forward.  Forward and onward, into the impenetrable future that lies ahead.  My muse, she has stopped listening to my pleas.  She ignores my calls for help and inspiration.  She loathes my dependence.  I cannot see her, but I know she is just beyond my sight, clasping in her hands my greatest idea, my greatest accomplishment.  I cannot do it alone, I must not.  It would upset the balance that I have so carefully maintained, between myself, and my true self.  To find my own inspiration would require an in-depth search of my soul.  My soul is the last place that I want to search.  It is full of unimaginable horrors; deep, dark chasms that hide my inner mind.  The subconscious is desperate for attention, but I will heed it not.  I have no need for listening to myself.  I know the ideas that spring from my true self will only lead to disaster.  My muse knows this, and she mocks me.  She is my pride, my torture-what makes me scream in the night.  Nightmares are the only inspirations that she allows me anymore.  Oh why?  Why must I have to find my own inspiration?  I need the clouds!  I need the moon and the summer rain and the soft fur of a curled-up cat.  I need the smell of spring, I need the winter chill…I need life!  Instead I am plagued by visions of death.  Decay, rot, anger, blood, and old-people-smell haunt me to the very core.  What shall I write then?  Should I, perhaps, write: The rotten stench of death filled the nostrils of the newly damned as their souls careened down the black pit to hell…?  No!  I don’t want those torturous visions!  I don’t want to share them with others!  Why can’t I be at peace?  Why can’t my muse save me from myself?  Instead she stands by and lets me daily slit the wrist of art and bleed out all the filth.  Filth!  That’s all I get!  I slave over paper, over computer, over pencils and books, and instead of inspiration, I am given the dregs of humanity.  Grotesque misshapen bodies, dark clotted blood-oh!  How ironic that I can describe with perfect clarity the sharp pang, the sensation of slowly sliding a razor blade over one’s wrist, and the giddy pain of it all, the metallic wonderful pain…the allure of a death to be remembered…  But I can’t explain mist or rainbows or the sensation of waking up feeling refreshed!!! 

            This then, must be it; my muse’s greatest joke.  She laughs at my pitiful attempts to draw upon memories of good times past.  She must be positively thrilled with herself.  She is turning me into my worst nightmare of all- a crazed psychopathic shadow of my former self.  I am no longer who I once was.  I am a slave to the evil that manifests itself in my head.  This, my friends, is not inspiration.  This is torture.  My muse-she has crossed the line.  She is no longer my ally, but my enemy.  I care not, anymore, that she still holds on to my greatest work.  I care not that she used to help, but now only hurts.  My friends, you can have her.  She is yours to claim.  I have given up fighting.  Mayhap one day I will come out of this.  Mayhap a new muse will present itself, and lead me back into the light.  But perhaps not.  It could be that I am now by myself, stuck in my own world, festering in pools of the black blood of pain, the decay of humanity.  I wander alone, I wander.  With pen and hand, and teeth clenched I attempt to pull myself out of this mire.  I find I must face my fears, and search my soul after all.  For honestly, what elements of my true self could be half as bad as the suffering that my muse has already caused?  Can’t think of anything?  Neither can I.