Writing abstract stories

returnofthemac Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   8 months ago
A story about writing and it’s true form ... i suppose


However much i want to talk i find that whenever the opportunity arises i have nothing to say. You mentally block me more than any other of my afflictions. You frustrate me beyond any consolation. Your blank face starring back at me is simply maddening. The type of madness you know is self inflicted. The type of madness that takes the form of the biggest hinderance you have ever known and are likely to ever know. Yet when my mind finally unblocks itself you light up like nothing i have ever seen. The solace you provide, in such moments is like none other imaginable. It fills me.

Extinguishing the flame you so eagerly lit within me. I struggle to think of what you actually look like. For you always bear the face i paint for you. A true chameleon who's face has only really been seen by few though you are an affliction to so many. You are whatever we want you to be I suppose. Coming through only in the rawest of emotions. Your face may be bare but your depth of character is beyond anyones comprehension. We see only what we project upon you. You are a mirror of ones subconscious. Reflecting back these parts of ourselves that never see the light of day.

Wearing our face vividly upon your own. Starring back at us through our own eyes; our own judging eyes. It isnt until we leave you that you shed our skin and become the blank canvas we have come to know. Such a one sided relationship cant be healthy. But it is quite the opposite. This one sidedness is a necessity to achieve the ultimate goal of self exploration. You are one of the only things that is truly capable of bringing our subconsciousness to life. Facing the world in our most vulnerable face so that we do not have to. Plagued with the life of a scapegoat you fit to the mould we provide.

I confide in you and trust you with my face, my hopes, and my dreams alike. I bear my soul to you. Yet i know nothing about you. You are a stranger to me. I know no more about you than i do the random pedestrian on the street. Yet i trust you indefinitely. Often times not even recognizing the face that is staring back at me even though it is my own. In short you are me but i am not not you. Nor could i ever be. Nor would i ever want to be. Going through the day blindly showing others only what they want to see. Slavery is your affliction. Though some of us have the same problem.

Narcissistically starring at their own face; a slave to their own subconscious. Addicted to words on paper. Addicted to themselves on such a basic level that glancing at their own reflection comes as naturally as taking a breath. You accommodate them. As they lose themselves in a blank page waiting to be painted with their own face.

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