Dry ink hangs over the page dangling frozen at the tip of a pen. The paper yellows with age. Blank with doubt and uninspired hopelessness. Waiting. Just waiting for the idle hand to sway with originality and scribble with aimless joy, but it all remains static and still.
Although, the air feels desperate the clock is patient as its afternoon smile shifts to a late night frown.
Floorboards creak and thump at pacing boots like a secret killer quietly stalking prey in a cabin. This cabin is nowhere near as eventful.
Endlessly searching for direction, the haunting apparition hovers over the imaginary world with tragic sorrow filled eyes. Hollow and tearfully fixed on the emptiness.
Bloodless pale, regretful and depressive, hatred consume the spirit and ignites strong sentiment. Like an ever growing void of inescapable speed and magnitude. The fear of being incomplete and fragmented crippled and killed the host, but nature demands invention. And with this very fear the phantasm is re-fleshed and re-lifed. Like a car with a new engine after a tragic accident, a second chance to move forward becomes possible. And with fear as the new engine the floorboards stop creaking just for the chair to start. And the rusted page vanishes behind pure white paper. And the stillness is sucked from the air. The clock holds it’s breath in anticipation for the mad scribbles of the haunting apparition whom swallowed the void whole.