I was waiting for the gnome of inspiration to tickle my numb feet so that I could compose the rhyme that my song needed. I had such a frail voice from all the nails I had swallowed, all my fingers had been smashed with a hammer, and the piano keys that I had swallowed were finally moving through my insides, like harmonious kidney stones, giving me the cadence that I was looking for.
But all I needed was something that would make the song mean something to all the people in the world that were tolerable, i.e., my fans.
When the gnome at last showed up, it began to devoured my toes, as it was only natural, but it was difficult to pay attention to anything else through such excruciating pain. The melody in the mind was in a bubble, I just needed to burst it open with a scream of agony, the dead thoughts of my creative mind.
“The song will reverberate across the world, and they will love me, and it will means something to so many people. They will come to me and they will say, ‘it saved my life’ and I will say nothing, because what follows then is the death of a composer, the next stage of the plan.”
I was waiting for the day of my death so that all my thoughts could finally spill over to the real world, and all my feelings would be validated by the people that I had spent a lifetime trying to impress. They would list not my songs and cry with emotion and masturbate in a way that was befitting of my melody and then dance in their wedding to my song, whistling to the tune to their inevitable stroke, all the time thinking, “This gal actually knew how to compose! I should have never made fun of their ugly feet which they eventually lost!”
It was true that I craved friendship and acceptance and companionship, but more than that, I wanted to be respected for something that I made with my own brain. So I decided to become the most humiliating thing anyone can be: a musician that writes their own songs, and I did, and I had a miserable time, just waiting for someone to buy my latest remixed single.
It was a death, brought on by the gnome of inspiration, which as it also turned out, was the gnome of death by strangling suffocation, the same one that is used for anacondas, that finally acclimated me to the fact that I was not a good artist at all, not a good composer, and not a good person. It was, as he said in a swallow, a complete failure in the world that I desperately wanted to accept me, but not in the sense that I had spent a lifetime doing what I loved everything I could to the best of my abilities to screw over others. A true perseverer with bad breath and a very ugly voice and shrill melodies, a true human, he said, flawed and awful, but with the capacity to do good if they had only grown to learn to change for the better.