A Prose With No Direction

one hit

The time of fasting has arrive upon me, the part of the year where abstinence is key to becoming a more decent human being in society. I have decided to fast from cursing, regretting each word and phrase from Satan that spills from my tongue and poisons the land. I have decided to fast from pleasures as well as pitying myself and relishing in the darkness that overfills me and my mind. 

In the past, I remember this time of year to be only about fasting and restricting. But recently, the guidelines for my religion has changed in which when we fast from something, we feast on something else. Like if one were to fast from anger, one would have to replace that restriction with an abundance of patience. This new addition, though helpful in encouraging humanity to do acts of good and strengthen one's morality, is very difficult to adapt to.

In a society like this, it is very easy to give up something like chocolate when dieting or say that one will no longer continue his or her bad habits.

But in that same society, it is very difficult to adapt to something new and maintain a good habit.

For me, it's very easy to give up thinking about the darkness.

But it's impossible for me to permit myself to think about the light.

For the feasting part, I decided to feast on journaling and fast from overthinking. I imagined journaling would allow me from pondering and pondering and pondering to the point I'm nearly brain dead.

I do hope it helps me.

I think I've enjoyed writing ever since I was little. But yet again, I think I'm remembering something I want to remember. However, I'm not exactly sure.

From the perspective of a dreamy-eyed imagination and a whimsical, adventurous mind, I find writing to be a child's dress-up play of God. I think writing is the closest thing we'll ever get to being God. 

Through the art of a pen's tip on a piece of looseleaf following orders from a wonderer adventuring in a different universe, we are able to build and create worlds, dress people to our own liking, manipulate people, places, and events, and destine our characters with an ultimate ending we, the writers, only know of. 

Isn't that what God truly is? 

Isn't he a writer who knows the timeline of of our lives? 

Isn't he a writer who predestines the events, people, and places that ultimately affect the person we have been, the person we are, and the person we are to be?

Isn't he a writer whose pen against the rough surface of a looseleaf decide when we expire and leave the world and people he created in his own image and likeness?

Isn't God a writer in that sense?

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If one wished to be like God, be a writer.

Since that's the closest you'll ever get to becoming a divine being.

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I think I'll journal about that.

From the comfort of my own bed, my body, whose warmness I can no longer feel, rises to walk towards the desk across the room, a piece of looseleaf and a pen ready to be touched and caressed by a being. I pull my seat out, and sit down, motivated to create something as great and as long-lasting as Earth.

As fingertips kiss the pen's figure, and the paper's lips awaiting the lips of the pen, my mind circles around ideas stored deep, deep, deep in the pits of my conscious that is usually pulled and awake during the hours of the moon. But as mind prepares to spew ideas onto a piece of discardable paper, I am interrupted by a sharp pain that plagues that backside of my head.

One hit.

Eyes open to find the interrupted mind on the table on which the looseleaf paper and pen sat, red paint somehow spilt and absorbing into the looseleaf. The pain that surges behind my head like a terrible migraine throbs nonstop, making my curious hand pat it. When hand returns from its adventure, eyes notice the origin of the red paint spilt.

The red paint is not an actual paint seen on the palette of an artist.

Unless that artist has interest in painting with blood.

As mind pins together the cause of this crime seen, eyes are overfilled with overwhelming thoughts, making them heavy as they carry the burden of the many possible truths. The truths, being too much of a burden, finally shut.

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And the last thing I heard was a hard thud on the floor.