The Room of Insanity

Edgar Allen Poe sat at his desk, writing frantically with a quill in hand. Only a line candle lite up the room, as his only source of light, casting shadows along the dimly lit walls. He noticed nothing though but his writing and the madness in his brain. He heard nothing from the storm beating at his window, whipping tree branches against the window panes while the wind wailed like a woman who had lost her lover, alone in the world. He kept writing, ignoring the winds cry for help, his eyes rimmed with red, from madness or wine we will never know. He stopped. He poured another glass of wine, ten in all, and drained it to the last drop. Making his breath smell of the vintage wine he bought days before.

He picked up his quill once more and tapped it against his chin. Tap tap tap... When he was struck with a wonderful idea and began to write once again. While he wrote, the storm began to slow to nothing but a light patter was the rain lightly drizzled down onto the earth as though little people were walking on the roof. Merry making, glad that the storm was gone. He didn't care of the little men on his roof though, he only cared for writing and nothing more. He wrote for hours, only stopping to sip his wine and replace each candle as it died to nothing but a puddle of wax, no purpose left to serve the world. It's job done. With every new candle newly placed to light the room, new shadows appeared on the walls.

Some small and some large, as if stalking a creature hidden among the shadows of the room, hidden and kept safe by the darkness. While the shadows danced, the light flickered by his breath, causing the shadows to dance faster and faster. Until they became a blur of light upon the walls, still dark in some areas, but light still shined through. Like hope in a horrid situation. Only hidden, but always there, shining though the darkness like a beacon. A beacon of hope.

He noticed it not though, for darkness had seeped into his brain, not allowing any light to water or shine through. He was in complete darkness, alone. Crying since like the wind was, not feeling love or hope, just hatred and sadness. The wine helping him forget the wicked past, not allowing these memories to resurface to his mind. Drowning them until they are dead, as dead as a memory can be. No candle in his brain to shine hope, just a black hole of nothing. Nothing but wine. Drowning it all, but the words on the paper, the only thing alive in this shell of a man. Words that come from the heart not the mind, as his hand wrote whats inside him, not feeling a thing but able to write and write and write. No longer alive except in his words.

He died soon after writing, an empty shell, not noticing he was dead. Not taking note of anything. His hand still twitching, wanting to still write words from his heart.

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Hey guys! Hope you enjoyed this! I wrote this back in 8th grade and decided to write it here. Please don't steal this and make it yours, I have copy rights. Thanks for reading!