“We don’t even ask happiness, just a little less pain.”
― Charles Bukowski
The suffering writer is the most appreciated writer, only second to the dead writer.
Pain strikes out of the blue and spreads all over their path of life, so they’ll slip over it over and over again. It will stick on their soul making it harder to move, slowing them down, forcing them to sit down. A viscid grey mass. And while they try to get rid of it, it will grab onto anything, the wall, the floor, the pages, clinging to them for ever. Only after they die, the pain will dry and stand there for everyone to see. A grey statue people love to look at. Modern Art. Pain all over the place, now and then interrupted by a thin beacon of light. A description of someone else’s life. A dream of what could have been. Happiness. A long-forgotten feeling, now hidden part of this organism made from black inked paper. The story.
A chess player endlessly waiting for the next move. Undecided. Staring at a beautiful marble board with wooden figures in an empty space. The tension.
The audience ravishing the blood flowing out of the screen, pleading for more, feeding of feelings they never knew. A writer’s pain. Delicious honey coated pastry with a hint of pepper.
Make them feel something.
In the safe setting of their homes, of course.
The writer never had the option of walking away from those feelings.
They drowned.
Slowly.
For them.
The ultimate sacrifice after a life full of struggles. What a superb spectacle. A Shakespearian tragedy ending with a huge round of applause.
Will they forget? The rush of the story fading away as soon as the lights go on.
The chess player made his move; excitement gone. Nothing to be done now.
Waiting for the next great one to pass to the other side so they can feel guilty again – but not too much.
Aromatic deception 