I have begun chapter nine of my ongoing tale of Rabbit Rue, which has just recently crossed the threshold of 130 pages. After I’ve written a few more of these books, I’ll consider this a mere trifle, but for now, that sheer amount of information is daunting. That I’ve created something that would require hours of reading dismays and bewilders my sensibilities, like a budding architect who has accidentally designed the Sistine Chapel.

No, it’s not so overwhelming that all other works pale in comparison. But it is a damn sight better than The Heretic of the North, a book I bought at a Borders in the Quad Cities two years ago when the author was whoring himself as writers must, at a book-signing. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, but I had to force myself through that book as if I were Oliver Twist, and each page was the only source of filthy gruel I’d encounter for weeks. I won’t further lambaste Timothy Brommer, but I’m a better writer, and he’s published. That simple fact implicitly saddens me, but also provides ultimate hope that I’ll trick amaze readers, eventually, with unparalleled intricate fiction.

Unfortunately I write for myself, to express the somewhat sickening churn broiling through my dreams and contemplations, and that’s a relatively small niche. It’s subtle, and requires a lot of reading between the lines, so maybe I can’t appeal to large audiences. Maybe I shouldn’t, considering the subject matter. It’s a simultaneously uplifting and maddening philosophy fit only for mental masochists. I’ve always felt alone and somehow separated from humanity in general; consider this my attempt to find like-minded souls, of which I genuinely hope there are few. This isn’t some goth or emo crap expressing imagined or pointless laments, but real considerations of the universe and its meaning.

My place in this crazy whirlwind, considering my malfunctioning heart, propensity for nostalgia over long lost worlds of the past, and uncertainty of the future, is a fragile one. Maybe my oblivious nature extends farther than I’d imagine, but I’ve yet to meet a single person, excepting maybe Cipherpunk, who understands the stark singularity of such existence and its implications. But that isolation is one of my inexhaustible torrents of inspiration, so I’ll not question it too stringently. But I can wish for more.

Until Tomorrow

Darkness Without Light
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One thought on “Darkness Without Light

  • Well…what can I say Shaun? First of all, keep on writing. It can only get better. And second of all…you are quite oblivious…

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