Author Wanted

She entered the darkness at her own risk, not knowing exactly what to expect, yet fully aware of everything she wanted to encounter.

The moonlight crept weary at her feet, slowly revealing all her feelings on sheets of paper no man would ever read. There was no time to lose, she had to let everything out before the waters of contempt washed it all away. And still, what could be said about such a strange vision? It had nothing on its favor, nothing real, nothing particular, nothing hopeful. Just nothingness creeping inside, like an unseen virus that would soon eat her alive.

She knew the answers. She had them prepared for the day in which they would ask her. Not introvertedly, not quietly, but in a strong sense of conviction which was utterly impossible to deny, lest it would become her biggest threat.

The moon looked at her and whispered slowly and in one big motion. Could she understand what was being told to her ears? Oh, no, the rest of the world had long since been abandoned, and now it was too late to express any grief for that loss.

She began writing a new page in her journal, almost hypnotized by long sentences which seemed to make no sense at all. Complicated and elaborated constructions saying things which came from the deepest corners of her inner hell. Things no one would ever know or understand, perhaps, not even herself.

Her power inside... she knew it was there, so large, so vast, yet so denied. She was too afraid of letting it out, due to fear of being fooling herself. That was always her greatest threat- not knowing when to trust in her own abilities. So she preferred her safe ignorance, deprived from hurtful disillusions.


She remembered times of happiness. Ignorant bliss. And she remembered his smell.

The smell of death. She developed an ability to recognize the scent of death, of infection. The one smell she still didn't know was the one of decay, yet she knew very well that one day, she would wake up and that smell would be too potent to be ignored, and it would come from herself, from her insides. She knew she was rotting away and did nothing to stop it. Why should she? Who would care? She certainly didn't. She was far too detached from and disenchanted with the modern world, so her desires were pass beyond it.

Passive sadness, determined isolation. Not to say it was easy, it was still a heavy burden. Too heavy perhaps for one lifetime, unless it was the final one.

Oh, the days and nights she wasted... the damage she made to herself without others knowing. Or perhaps they knew, but they had, just as her, silently and unknowingly accepted the unavoidable. She knew there was no turning back now.

The charade she lived was very strong and deterring. So she wrote. She wrote to relive herself from that weight. Her pale fingers touching the keys of her computer as if they were playing the piano, following an inner melody that had been written by no one for her soul only.

The everlasting contemplation, the silent resolution, the deadliest of all the poisons... Her words, unsaid.

Perhaps, if someone had asked, she would have mentioned it, but it was far too strange, far too annoying. And so she kept it all to herself. No one could know, no one would know.

Taking one big step into the nothingness she had always hated, she plunged into painless suicide, and left all her wounds open so that one day someone would look at them and think, 'here is at last the one I should have seen.'

It would flow like a stream of tears, it would find its cause and it would leave everything untold so that others would never relate to it. Her eternal and unique unsatisfactory tale of romance.

Nothing made any sense. She could not write it, she only knew how to feel it. What if there was someone else out there who could put her mind into words? It would have to be someone who was still in this world and who, preferably, had no plans of leaving it soon.