The Endless Enigma


I don’t pretend to be a good writer. When I sit in my chair looking at a blank screen with antsy fingers I realize just how vast of a beast writing is. I would love to inspire someone, even just one life during my journey through this universe. When is it enough? I am filled with words and thoughts screaming to come out of me yet I am thwarted by my own mind, relentless in its pursuit to close out the world. I cringe at the idea of letting anyone in but I thrive off of the imaginable art of putting my jar of feelings into a roman à clef. For me to exert this energy living inside of my head upon the living would be more magnificent than anything I could dream of pursuing. I have had many reveries, all amounting to dust when compared to this phenomenon that is writing. Yet I am my own worst enemy and the great predicted cause of my own demise for fear of failing myself and the accomplishments I fantasize of. The wheel still spins but I have gotten off and the rest of the globe keeps on cycling while I sit alone contemplating all that I am not. Solitude is my friend and my strongest scoffer. She waits for me like the muse I’ve always sought, tempting me with her unfathomable eyes of depth. As complex as she is, her simplicity is what keeps me coming back for more, begging for another taste of erudition. It’s my patience that betrays me, when I feel that I utterly need what I implore without payment or excuses; but I never get what I desire when I come in haste. It is time that sits by teasing me with the inspiration that I crave and only allowing me a spoonful at a time. I eat and indulge completely in the morsel that I am given but I yearn for more before I have even finished. This is the affliction I am enkindled, that I would never trade.

Give me words or give me death, I write to live and pass the test. If I should fail and doom myself, I’ll trade my life for someone else. When immortality fails my soul, I’ll strike the gong and pay the toll. If I shall claim a chance at wealth, they’ll watch me leave with wicked stealth. A chance to shine I’ll hold once more, these words of mine I’ll cry out for, forevermore. ©


4 thoughts on “The Endless Enigma

  1. Keith Taylor

    There once was a man who said, “Damn!
    It is borne in upon me I am
    An engine that moves
    In predestinate grooves,
    I’m not even a bus, I’m a tram.”

  2. You may not pretend to be a good writer but you ARE a great writer! Few people write with your strong imagery, poetic touch, and actually be able to tell a story. You have a passion that comes through, again also rare. All I can say, is thank you for letting us into your world.

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