Writer Problems

I have never created a permanent solution, a world built to last, an asylum from the outside void. Every word burns readily against the white and the paper goes up in flames, a world lost, a song sung, a silence unbroken. I have never created a construct built to last.

            Unchained, now, what do I have to do?

            Write me a world.

            How do I write something I hardly understand? I am no creator. I am a wanderer.

            Build the walls from your blood, your soul, your heart. Fill it with all the pain and confusion you’ve ever felt lost in a crowd of meandering mortals. Fill it with immortality.

            I can’t remember what it’s like.

            You remember.

            Do I want to go back?

            Do you want to go forward?

            My hands feel broken. Requiem, denial, I have forgotten what I’m chasing.

            Walk the cemetery path and look into the still pond.

            All I see is myself and the sky.

            Which way will you fall, if you jump into it.

            To the stars, the black, the void between galaxies.

            Which way.

            Within.