Stories are often at the beginning like ghosts. Lingering there inside your mind, waiting for the perfect opportunity, a moment of weakness in order to strike.
They offer you glimpses, calling you in, drawing you near and to the edge until you are left with only one choice. To cave in.
And then you write, a frenzy of worries, hopes and dreams and visions. Blur of words upon words obsessively covering the blank page. And you think it's enough to satiate the demon inside of you. But where is one, there are many.
And they claw at your mind, weakening it, until you become a puppet, in front of your poison of choice, more words pouring out of you just to silence their voices.
But they want more, always demand more. Another sacrifice, another tear, another search deeper and deeper within your heart, carving it out so you bleed on paper, hoping to find that sweet release, like an orgasmic high.
And once it's done, oh it's glorious, so thrilling you don't know if you should laugh or cry, so you sit there and do both.
And then you're at it again and again, the perfect kind of drug, but always better, always stronger, forever a higher dosage.
My favorite type of horror is writing.
