It is known that the moment someone decides to become a writer, the meaning of the story is changed irreparably, always for the worse, and from the total embarrassment of creation, just like Jehovah, one can only try to correct the mistakes that teemer within the text.
The objective of a writer, is, in the moment of creation almost the same as it is to stand naked in the garden. Instead of instigating intergenerational conflict, however, and vibes of wrongness, the writer will instead stand erect in a manner befitting of a tree, ready to be struck down by a dream that has begun dancing magically, slain from the waist down, both hands in prayer.
The story will not make sense for it has been written and curated in the horrific shyness of the artist, and then filtered through the viewpoint of his unfathomable sadness. There is a system, they will think, and they don’t think it, they will feel, and if they don’t feel, they will act, and if they don’t act, they will submerge, and in every single of these occasions, the history of the world in the fingers will be poisoned, smeared, and dazed.
The writer, nude and exposed, however, has in an eye the power to control the world they have envisioned and in the other the ability to ruin it completely, not for any reader, which does not exist, nor for an audience, which hasn’t been born. There is a moment, in the time of creation, in which they will realize this and never let go of the feeling: the control of obsolescence and the sudden interest in the surroundings, the world beyond the text, drugs in the garden that can be inhaled deeply and consciously, without consequence.
It is then known that, if the writer manages to apply themselves and obscure the most troubling aspects of their slimy fingers, then the story is set free at last, and it flies through the garden to an unknown horizon where it feeds itself. The writer is forced to accept something that they cannot comprehend and, as such, it will commit suicide in the most appropriate manner. The life will follow, regardless, for the death is not the end of the artist, but the next step in a series of act which increasingly fade away from memory. It is both recognized and forgotten, it is both talked about and silenced, and there is both passionate love and passionate hatred for the writer, for themselves, and for the story.
The writer rests in hopes of getting the story, but then the history betrays. The text has surrendered in a distant land and it is being torn apart and devoured to be tasted in an unsanitary broth. The writer does not know this and they lie to themselves saying to themselves, and anyone, that they absolutely know what the history is, what is it about, and where it goes. The writer cries in silence and never shows it, and then understands how God will feel when His own story ends.