devouringgod

let this be a lesson to any and all who happen to survey the demise of young lackwit, the heavy of heart . look not on him for his strength. not his prowess in all things mechanical. he is/always has been the one with too much sleeve and not enough heart. the one who pulls out all the stops and cant seem to figure out where the damned brakes are when its time to slow down.

he is not our protagonist by any means. if anything he is merely a side character that our young readers would forget if not for his antics and wit. well maybe not the wit. his name implies the opposite.

here we see him sitting. pining. pouring his heart through the front end of an ink stick tearing paper as he writes. no words are yet to be seen. he just feels. there is ink on his cheek/hand/heart. yet he writes. and writes. and writes.

yellow parchment soon becomes maroon and black. swirls of chaotic nothingness, peaking to some climax near the end of the page in a cacophony of mountain-like jagged peaks.

his love has apparently gone to market, leaving poor lackwit alone to brood. he is not the brooding type typically, yet, here he sits...arm whirling like a mad pendulum lost on its own consumptive magnetism. he can feel the edge of the paper approaching. its his last resort. nothing left between him and the bottle laid out before him. the inkwell is on the floor, along with most of the bottle of ink. his pen is dry and slashing as it attempts to write his last dire statement to the world.

from across the room something small catches the eye of this young heartsick fool. its a candle. still lit. he remember the feeling of warmth. the smell of the wax. the orange of the glow. yet looking upon it now it is a stranger to him. it burns but there is no heat. it has a smell but he doesnt recognize it. the orange is the same as anything else he sees nearby. as if from a daze, he stands. grabs the small bottle next to the parchment. walks to the candle. opens the lid. takes three deep swallows. and smashes the bottle across the room. turning ever so quickly back to the candle to face its half warmth. putting both hands around the flame to cup it, he kneels before the table it sits on. he smiles at the little dancer doing her dance. feels the darkness from behind the candle slowly wrapping him in cold shadow. there is no heat. the dancer is fleeing. her light has gone. and so too will his.

lying upon the floor with the ink and bottle fragments is our young lackwit. open heart. open eyes. seeing nothing. feeling less.

here lies our hope. here lies our dreamer. here lies the enigmatic end of our most mundane friend. named Love.