TDV 49: The Man Of Letters

August 13th, 2009 by Sharkchild

Words were my masters. Their colloquial voices chattered in my mind, enlivening an unconventional form of command. They had agendas and hate and disgust, all of which brought about a tumultuous ocean of demands within my head, so vast that I drifted upon it as weathered wreckage—for I was but an insignificant muse bent to the will of these illustriously literate germs of my thoughts. Their deeds were mischievous and wicked, and although their actions could be assigned to nothing but my ownership, I knew their origin was not native to my existence. They were foreign; they were toxic.  And in making tangible through writing their iniquitous flare, such intense, ravenous desire was conjured within me. I so desperately wished to banish their sinister saturation, but I was a slave to the feelings and erotica of their master-play.

These creatures of my mind coveted the writing of letters. With their incredible prowess of locution, they could bend circumstance—even life. Through my hand and the simple ink upon a pen, they could sculpt diabolical imageries, demented emotions, and jarring, torturing revelations. To the reader they were just words, and to me they were just words, but to the universe of things visible and not, sensible and insane, these markings that traveled from the holes of realms to mind and mind to hand and hand to paper were—in their perfect collection—unimaginable hexes. And so as the mind’s eyes of these letters’ recipients placed the words together, recreating them in thought, the workings of a dark, dark magic were birthed.

(Listen to the rest)

 

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