Inspirational Piece
reading this, you will be full of heart. take my word for it
There’s this man who comes by where I live every once in a while. I don’t know this man’s name, or where he’s from, or his story, how he came to be the man he is today. But I know his wisdom. He imparts his words on me each visit, but only if I meet him at the door. His presence will vanish as soon as he can see that I have any reluctance to let him in. When the door opens, he doesn’t open his mouth, nor shake my hand, or greet me. Instead, he graces me with the all-powerful violation of the senses, through my ears and eyes and mouth and body. Seeing sounds that send signals within my core, rippling out through my arms and coalescing on my fingertips. The resulting feeling is powerful to say the absolute least. The man is already gone. He did his job; he played his part. Congratulations, but I don’t need you anymore. I’m filled to the brim. I’m pent up with fury. I’m bursting with boundless energy. I’m inspired.
Close the door, fall to the floor. Time to write. The pages receive my blood drip-fed through the ink. The ink dissolves into the paper, an eternal pact between my soul and the soul bearer. Bearing myself through the words. Taking the scalpel and cutting my stomach open, peeling back the layers, and sitting up in my highchair, letting my inner contents spill out onto the glass table. Under the table the pigs watch the projectile offal spat onto the canvas, bodies shuddering, but eyes fixated all the same. Maybe if they’re lucky, if any spills over the edge, they can catch a taste, right in their mouth. Taste my pain. Taste my inspiration. You better savour that slice before it becomes a part of you. You feel it for a moment… then it dissolves, as all consumptions do. You crave more. Dive onto the table, coat yourself in the wounds. Get mangled, twisted and tangled in the barbed wiring. It tears you up and tears you up, until there’s no tears left to cry and no tears left to pry. Offal. Just offal. I served you the dish that you became and repackaged you to the table across the room. Rinse and repeat, and I’ve inspired.
What a mess. I fucking love it. I love when the man comes by where I live. I’ll never be late to the trough.