freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

When it comes to art, what is the artist but a mere vessel, an empty chamber which passively receives all the many shouts of the world and magnifies them, combining them into a single echo, a convolution of existing thoughts that only seems original in its unique combination?

Einstein’s theory of relativity was incomplete. Time dilation didn’t just occur at relativistic velocities, but in moments of extreme fear and anxiety. And in these cases the effect was much stronger, more prevalent.

As a writer, my characters influence me. Is it like that with God in relation to man?¹

“I want you to lie to me,” he said brusquely, reaching to undo her bra straps. “I want you to tell me you love me.”

“Why, baby?” Her lips brushed against his ear. Her tongue gently probed its surface, exploring uncharted terrain that it would never see again.

“Just do it,” he said. Unseen tears dotted the corners around his eyes. “Say you love me. Lie like you mean it.”

Footnotes

1. I sometimes think of God as if he were a writer and we were the characters in an unfinished novel.

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What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

Redemption. Salvation. I have begun to write once more¹. I’ve emerged from a fitful slumber filled with terrors and anxieties to find the light once more.

I’m reoriented. Recalibrated. The old ways have returned. The folly of my former ways is but a bad dream, a hazy recollection that might never have happened at all.

A bad dream. Then poof. Gone. I have discovered myself once more, amid a hall of mirrors and vain self images, an endless array of mirrors and empty reflections of reflections.

I’ve found the true self, huddled in the dark, despairing of rescue. I’ve saved him for myself. I now hold him close to my bosom, my love, my life, my reason for being. With him I will once more accomplish great things.

Ideas. Tumbling. Spinning. A tempestuous gale of conflicting senses and values and ideas, rocking the foundation, battering the flimsy support beams, already rotting and corroding from the inside out.

The storm intensifies. I huddle beneath a failing foundation, trembling, despairing of the house of convenience and comfort and assumptions that I’ve built up around me. I hear the beams creaking, groaning, sounding their death cries. It won’t be long now.

Collapse. I lose everything. All I had once held as self-evident truths has crumpled to ash² before my tear-stained eyes.

I gaze about, lost and broken. The storm has lifted, and after a dazed numb silence I begin to pick up the pieces.

I work feverishly, building for myself a foundation that combines the new with the old, though I know there will be another storm, for such folly is my life eternal.

Footnotes

1. As you probably guessed, this came at a time when I hadn’t written for a long time. I was so excited when the words started flowing again that I had to capture my feelings on paper so that I could remember them later.

2. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever find the truth.

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©2015 Jeff Coleman. All rights reserved. For reproduction rights, please contact the author (who happens to be a kind and eminently reasonable man.) Unless otherwise stated, images are copyrighted by various artists and licensed by Shutterstock.