Enigma of the Blackwidow

I was 7 years old when I realized we are delivered for our purpose. The big question though is how you recognize it when our own wants and desires come in the way. I guess, we really have a choice. So I thought I’d become a scientist, improvise concoctions that will cure the world..maybe even the illness of society. That’s quiet a dream. The age had consumed those ideals in time, and faith has become just campfire stories fascinating a despaired soul. I am taking you to my path so you could find yours. Doleful as it may take, the risk and pain would be worth it.

Between the reverie steps of big token hopes, I was naïve, sure of what the world was made of.. big candy store of variant colors, free for the taking. Then I stumbled, loathed by the ironies of monkey ways.  Fate did a bang job screwing my plans, I ended up slumping my way out and confused. You won’t understand all this mumbling shit. Just when I thought everything is going my way, like normal humans do, I would find a big rock and slam it on my head. And every time I fall, the pen is right there in front of me begging to hear my thoughts. Use me. Abuse me. So I did, fidgeting with words that spontaneously appear inside my head. I wrote stories.. theories.. tattering.. inflicting pain to anyone who has ever read it. That’s how the light found me. In my darkness.

Before my suffering, I found other people’s bigger sufferings. I decided to carry them, the way my faith has carried me. One night, I woke up in pain..excruciating..creeping through my veins.. Barely walking, shuffling through the dim floor, on my way to reach for my pills. No soul came to hear my torments. Then I started remembering.. my little school, haunted by little kids.. medals.. that piano I played.. songs I made in the head.. faith that housed my trustful wits.. then this and that.. ruined my soul. So this is death. My wimping strength blurted in haste..If my  days are numbered, I have to do what my heart has been told.

My hands are ready. Your story will be told.

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Abby Mabb

Snarly female. Occasional book reviewer.

Espen Stenersrød- From Pen To Heart

Jack Kerouac with a scent of Henry Vaughn

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"The hero of my tale, whom I love with all the power of my soul, whom I have tried to portray in all his beauty, who has been, is, and will be beautiful, is Truth." Leo Tolstoy

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