Hear silence here

Normally I listen to music as I write. Not this time. It’s silent here, hear.

I sit at my debris-smothered desk surrounded by four off-white walls. I can’t help but gently sway in my old, blue, uncomfortable office chair that I got for free because somebody no longer needed it or wanted it – need and want are two very different things and I’d like you to make a note of that.

I sway with the calm waters of the captain’s boat. The chair, I need – the sway, I want. This is a reality and a choice.

But none of that matters. Why did I call you here? That’s all that matters. “Write now,” said Myself.

The wall in front of me is blank. Well, that’s not true. There’s a Jake “the Snake” Roberts action figure mint-in-package staring into my eyes. And, above and to the corner, hanging from the ceiling, there’s a fake plant with fake white flowers in a fake brass pot that was left here by the previous tenant. I never bothered taking it down. Why should I? Give me one reason.

When I write, I worry the reader (that’s you) will get bored and leave. So, I put myself in the reader’s chair and reassure myself, as I read my own work, this is exactly what you’re looking for – but it’s not.

I sway.

The true gift would be it’s not what you’re looking for at all. But despite this harsh reality, you choose to read on. You read on and realize, finding what you’re looking for – what you want – is overrated.

Getting what you want means no surprises, no twists, no lessons – and ultimately no need. I’d like you to make a note of that.

So even though the music is silent, you've heard what I've had to say.

Enjoy this moment – it’s the only one you have. Write now. Or, forever hold your piece.

Owed to the Good Doctor

Dear Fear-mongering, bastard-whoore-fucks:

You did this to him. He’s dead and it’s your fault. Your selfish ways have run amok on this attempt at a civil society long before the talented ones first spoke up. Your stench of corruption and deception intoxicates our lives. We all need to air out.

Without souls like his, who knows what terrible monsters would be eating our brains on an hourly basis? He is courage. He is – in a way – the father of disbelief.

Your style has always been to devour truth and vomit lies. But he gave us the proverbial 3D aviators required to comprehend the blurry and layered noise you’ve been spewing. Now that he’s gone, the noise remains. The reality goggles he created are only good for looking back. But that’s what you wanted all along: us left wondering what might have been.

His typewriter was mightier than your swords. But somebody stole his ink. And now, your swords are sharper than they’ve ever been. But the words you carve with the sharpest end of those swords leaves not a deep scar tissue, but a shallow scar instead. So thin, it’s transparent. It’s barely there. I can see right through it. Perhaps because his words hardened our skin, prepared us for what's next.

Some dare to call him selfish, as though that’s some kind of revelation. They call him selfish because of how it ended. But those people forget who he was up against. He was up against disbelievers. The uninspiring , disbelieving assholes that inspired some of the greatest written pieces of the 20th Century.

Pose as part of the attraction. That’s what the disbelievers want. But passengers don’t define the ride, they’re just along for the ride. They bought their damned ticket to nowhere and expected something in return.

Their apathetic attitudes drove him insane to do great things. He made believers of the disbelief he preached. But the moment he wasn’t above death, some stopped believing. Then, they blamed him. They blamed the ride for ending before the best part, never once questioning why. His unadulterated, mumbling-scribbles spawned a nation of freaks of which the newly-crowned disbelievers are no longer part.

Write now. Or, forever hold your piece.