The page blackens at a deadening fast pace. The words flow from his finger tips in a fever dream state, and that is where the art comes in. Taken out of context, the words lose all shape and meaning, yet when placed in the sequence of the blackening page, meaning takes shape. A poetic sense of justice for a man who is just desperate to find someone to understand.
A consequence, then, of the hallucinatory agent he took mere hours ago. His mental state at the cusp of going in any singular emotional direction - albeit, even if very temporarily, it feels the most pure to him as he experiences it. The senses have heightened and he believes what he sees. He writes as he feels. The elegant poetry, while lost in the initial intent, forms a bond with what is between the lines.
He sees no monsters you typically hear the stories about with such substances. The room just feels more vibrant. His head takes the shape of his greatest desires and grandiose ideas. Still, in the purity of his emotions, words flow.
This man knows a thing or two about where art comes from. He indulges in every emotional state he can. He justifies experiences with knowing that they will shape his tomorrow in ways he could not otherwise fathom, and won't fathom until he can process.
This is where his appreciation comes from, while also fully understanding just how slippery the slope of imposing emotions can be. So he finds himself in solitude with his hallucinations, still bringing him pure, unadultered emotional madness.
A memory inside him sparks. A long lost love - his childhood dog, the kind of love that is absolute and pure, without the messy complications of human complexity. It is far from a pleasant memory, however. He remembers wanting to protect the dog and being unable to as tears begin to flood the ground beneath his chair.
Still, the page blackens even more.
He processes the emotion even more, the only way he can in this state - nearly incapable of doing anything other than writing about it in some convoluted, twisted story. He will spend tomorrow editing it to make sense, but right now it is more important to get the words upon the page.
The room is filling with his tears and he begins to feel claustrophobic, but still the words are pouring out of him. They've taken control now, as his hands turn into blurs before his very eyes. Still, the image of that dog - him standing in front of it while his mother holds a belt and is ready to whip the dog into shape - has been etching itself, detail by detail, as a pure emotional image inside his mind.
The tears clear the top of the chair. His face, feeling as though it is melting. He is too far gone, but tomorrow he will question whether he over indulged. His hands have never moved as fast as he sees them moving now. The dog, whimpering behind his legs as it knows what it did wrong. The man, only as a child, doesn't care what the dog did wrong. He knows the dog doesn't deserve this. He knows that he must stop his mother from doing the damage to the poor, innocent dog, but he is too small and easily gets pushed aside.
The tears are to his mouth now while his face begins dissolving into the salty liquid. His hands, obscured and slowed by the water, now look like they are darting in all sorts of odd directions as the pool of tears splash around the room. He must finish blackening the page.
The tears rush over his head as he takes his final breathe. His head topples onto the desk between his arms, which are still extended to the keyboard. The room is dry. The memory has subsided. For now, he dreams of things he could only hope to remember.
He awakes in the morning, feeling refreshed and new. He looks at the blackened page. It wasn't black. In fact, there was only one line - "I love dogs."
- Dustin S. Stover
Comments