My Fault or The Inescapable Vow To The God Of Punishment

Chapter 4 - Unknown

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"Maybe it's self-harm, or maybe you find your peace in an avalanche of tears and screams"

He had yet again moved le stylo pen on the blank pages, feeling the weight of his consciousness in the grating repetitious cadence of his motions, sensing an uncertain expressive blunting settling over him. Despite this, he strived, making a mental effort, dwelling upon his old writing technique again and again and again, yet nothing seemed to yield the desired result. Each idiom and manifestation written on the blanc pages emerged dull and threadbare, lacking any deception of an authentic idea, leaving him feeling disenchanted and disconnected. His words sounded quixotic, his phrases almost idyllic, but devoid of the multiple usages of the connotation of passion, whatever he referred to it as fervour and ardour, rage and frenzy, love and lust, enthusiasm and mania, obsession and fanaticism or from its Christ passion, which it came from the word suffering, martyrdom, being to dull and the rationale that once fueled his inventiveness, leaving him questioning where his passion had gone, where the power to be reborn had disappeared. He found himself incapable of connecting with the emotions he sought to convey through his art, the love letter he attempted to send to the world sinking, wishing for the time where he was left with dry tears, forced to take pauses to cry in the palm of his hand as his mind tormented him, yet paradoxically, this was the only means he found to relax. Perhaps, he mused, it was a form of masochism, or maybe he discovered peace in an avalanche of slashes and whines because he was happy and at peace after authoring a chapter, the sensation of isolation of a self-destructive person believing that if he had friends and people next to him he would return to his life (the leading character of the text) until he realized that it was too late. He had been abused and demolished by everything he cared for. Until he discerned that he was unknown.
Yet, he felt that he could no longer communicate those feelings of peace in the silence and solitude of his room.
Maybe he just got out of hand and has no motivation to write anything.
Maybe he's not as good at writing as he thought he was, as he always relinquishes every concept that doesn't suit him after some time, and has hundreds of unfinished pictures.
Maybe he just needs a break from writing until he returns to the world of letters and perhaps one day, publish. For some time now he has not been sure that he enjoys authoring, even after all the approval and appreciation he received from all the people who knew about his inconsequential literary works, he has been told that they are far too harsh (harsh, was just an alternative disguise for the word cruel, a sweet word for how the grey clouds are hazing over the atmosphere of his literary works) and that they should at least have a happy ending if it was achievable, much happier than that in the end, the protagonists go on different paths and never hear from each other again living their lives anew, just thinking about each other once in a while. There are no protagonists or secondary characters in everyday life or who knows what else is found in ideological movies, and he has not watched one movie since he broke up with a character who existed in his book just for only a half chapter. Yet the verity about esse is that if we don't take the power to fix it, someone else will write it and be able to choose whether to make you in your eternal memory the main or secondary character in the book of your life or maybe even have no character inside them living without being important in your own life.
Or perhaps he just criticized himself too severely and became desensitized to the real and unfortunately day-to-day difficult sensations.
Or possibly Plagg was right, and he needs a psychiatrist. A good one, because no normal person should see love in misery or stay close to people who make them feel hard to exist or teach them how difficult it is to love.
Such environments were familiar to him.
In the very end, the truth is he can't help but wish to be unknown and keep people at arm-length and drive people into being hard to treasure him, at the same time he is as if he's trying with all his power to make people appreciate his company by making an effort to help, wishing for his friend's approval, as they becoming his only form of liberty outside of his mind.
To be liked, and appreciated, and to know that he can provide safety, while at the same time, he wants distance and raises his walls as high as he can.
And yet, maybe his lack of producing stories as he had never touched a pen wasn't about him, in the last few days he kept reflecting on an altercation with his father, how his father, absent-minded and drunk with anger, as Adrien interrupted him with his questions, had credited him in the past with the unhappiness his mother was going through, or any taint of shame and embarrassment. Maybe it was just anger, cause he lost his spouse in a brief period, and loneliness since he wanted to be isolated in this estate.