"He started writing," she said, talking about her father. "He's an old man now. Had me when he was in his late forties. You'd think late forties would be enough to realize that a man is crazy, but well, not my mother I guess. Or perhaps it was the craziness that attracted her to him. I'll never know. He says that writing is something you can do until you drop dead, unlike sports where you can only be truly good when you're young, in your prime. Also, he's one of those artists who believe that one must suffer for art. I tried telling him that's just plain stupid, but despite all my efforts he still sprinkles razor blades on his bed when he goes to sleep. He moves at night of course and of course he gets plenty of cuts. All over his body. And every time he gets a cut he stands up, turns on the light, and sprays rubbing alcohol on the cut. He says it works 100% of the time. Instantly he gets inspired, grabs the muse by the throat, as he puts it. There's a laptop on his nightstand, ever turned on, and he immediately starts writing as the blood seeps out of the wound. When the inspiration wains he grabs the bottle of rubbing alcohol and sprays some more. There's no writing without pain, he says. And of course all his stories are about pain and suffering. He's even got one in which this old guy who never did anything worthwhile in his life finds himself paralyzed in his armchair from the waist down. How he can't do shit and just cries and begs death to take him already. But he doesn't really want to go. He knows that all his life has been lived in vain. He never made one soul happy as long as he lived. So he gets this idea that if only he can make one soul happy before departing forever he had not lived in vain. In part two of the story he starts cutting pieces of his own flesh, from the legs in which he's got no feeling, and throws them out the window for the mongrel dogs and street cats to feast on. Then he dies in peace, knowing that he'd made at least a few souls happy." "Did he really write that," I asked "Sure did," she said. "And many more. He doesn't care about publishing though. He just knows that the world will discover his art after he'll be gone. I guess he made his peace with this." "Shit," I said, "listen, could I read that story myself? Or any other of his?" "Like I said, he won't share his writings with an audience. Only postmortem, he says." Well, after that evening every time I met her I kept asking about her father. He was still alive and writing He also got diabetes from all the glasses of coca-cola mixed with six or seven spoonfuls of sugar he drank to replenish his blood, but that was all right, apparently it only made him write better now that he had more suffering in his life he also refuses to see or be seen by any doctors or psychiatrists Well, I don't want much from him, only to know that he's got a big fan in this world
Great piece
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( ^◡^)っ Thank you!
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the things I would do to read his stories! This reminds me of a poem that I read in college. The narrator is someone who is insane, but no one knows that. The narrator talks a lot, and randomly shares fun “facts” that are so INTERESTING that they seem accurate, but really they’re just made up theories from someone who has lost their mind. I remember one of these fun facts. It’s that when it rains, a mosquito is able to fly and avoid every drop of rain falling from the sky. It’s interesting, isn’t it? Anyways, every now and then I tell someone that and they actually believe me! haha! I guess they’re crazier than me for believing an insane person 😛
You have my follow, I look forward to reading more of your work!
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Thank you very much, my friend!
Much appreciated! (◕‿◕)
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of course!
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I love the storytelling way in which you delivered the poem. It reminds me, I am not sure, whether of someone I know, of my self, or a little bit of both.
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(っ◕‿◕)っ Oh, many, many thanks for giving it a read!
Much appreciated!
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Love this!
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( ノ^ ω ^)ノ゚ Thanks!
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I’d love to read that man’s stories…let me know when he dies. 😁
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(*゚∀゚)つ Haha! Something tells me it’s not gonna take long…
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That’s good…I’m not known for my patience. 😉
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Shakespeare’s “pound of flesh” with a drenching of Kafka and a dash of Hemingway maybe? The obsessed writer makes all different kinds of marks… I am not sure I’m prepared for his post mortem works! You write an interesting narrative-poem but very spooky.
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Many thanks for checking it out!
The portrait of the obsessed/mad artist has always fascinated me to no end
⤜(⚆ᗜ⚆)⤏
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There are plenty of examples thru out time to be sure. Perhaps it’s a requirement of the trade? For those who would dare to speak. In any case thank you for coming by my new blog. I look forward to reading more of your work some time. I do like a good “nightmare-tale” from time to time!
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Excellent post! Really liked this one.
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(☞゚∀゚)☞ Thank you very much!
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Can I re-blog ?
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ヽ(•‿•)ノ Absolutely!
Thanks 😁
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Great piece of writing. Some writers really believe they have to suffer to write. I think I rather live comfortably while penning down stuff.
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(●‿●) Thanks! I definitely agree with your method here 👍
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Well done!
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(´・ᴗ・`) Aw, thank you!
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This is crazy goood. I admire your work.
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(◍•ᴗ•◍) Thank you!
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Wow, awesome story! Many thanks for sharing this story with us all!
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-=≡Σ(((⊃゚∀゚)つ I thank you for reading, Carolyn!
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This is lovely, Bogdan.
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(˵╹▿╹˵) oh, many thanks for checking it out!
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Dear Bogdan,
You are very welcome. I have been checking out plenty of your oeuvres for a long time. Keep up the good work!
Happy June to you!
Yours sincerely,
SoundEagle
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ʕっ• ᴥ • ʔっ Thanks for the encouraging words, SoundEagle!
Will do my best 🙂
Happy June to you too!
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This is reeeely Weird
And
BRILLIANT!
LOVED IT!
Cheers
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My favorite type of fiction ʘ‿ʘ
Many thanks for giving it a read!
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Was my pleasure Friend.
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This glorification of suffering as a source of art is definitely something I grew up seeing. And then I almost got married to one such sufferer. Big mistake. Big. 😅
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Well, I was always fascinated by people who think like that, but perhaps it’s a good idea to keep a safe distance from them
¯\_◉‿◉_/¯
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Yup I was an idiot. But you are right. They are fascinating. And it was also a lesson in the fact that suffering is, after a certain point, actively chosen. I love how this piece illustrated it.
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Many thanks for giving it a read!
⊂(◉ ‿ ◉)つ
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Such a strange but interesting poem. Maybe I’m overthinking, but if it’s a cry for help, I hope it’s not too late. Writing can be based on sweet soft good dreams instead too. Have missed reading your poems though, keep writing!
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ʕっ• ᴥ • ʔっ Thank you for the appreciation (and the concern, lol).
Don’t worry though, at the end of the day all my poems are but the results of daydreaming, nothing more :))
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Great blog 😊👍🏻
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It’s a masterpiece 👍
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Aw, thank you! (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)
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Yeah, loved it.
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Thanks! (^_^)
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I admire your choice to leave the narrator’s wish (to read the fellow’s work) UN-met. That’s perfect.
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Thank you! ´・ᴗ・ `
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