Writer's Block (IWA: 3 Paragraphs)
Nov 26, 2013 13:33:54 GMT -8
Barnaby Cuthbert, Ross, and 2 more like this
Post by Michael Fabsits on Nov 26, 2013 13:33:54 GMT -8
A corrupted version of the drumline from “Eye of the Tiger” plays in the background, the Taiko drums are empty and hollow. A scream and a crash as a fist strikes the recording console, punching elbow deep into the steel and electronics. I hate this fucking project, why did I ever take this on? Michael mutters to himself, he can feel the emptiness from the drums resonating through him. He pulls his bloody fist from the smoldering wreckage of the terminal.
Staring at the destroyed console, surrounded dozens of shredded notebooks, Michael is sweating blood with the tension of not being able to make it work. The drums sound hollow and empty, no matter how he arranges them or situates them they can’t gain any heft. The chanting is benign and uninspiring. He fights back thoughts of continuing his tantrum, throwing the console through the wall, destroying the drums, killing the singers he has hired to do the chanting. Yet he knows the problem isn’t with the drums, it is with him.
No matter how he keeps trying to push himself into new forms of art and find new inspiration, his spark had been consumed the night of crash. Somehow the consequence of discarding his humanity had been the loss of the creativity that he cherished. Now he sits in the studio, feeling empty, hungry, angry, alone. Blood runs from his arm, over his fingers and onto the notebooks, but he can’t bring himself to heal his wounds. He just stares, entranced at the beauty of his essence leaving his body, and bleeds.
Staring at the destroyed console, surrounded dozens of shredded notebooks, Michael is sweating blood with the tension of not being able to make it work. The drums sound hollow and empty, no matter how he arranges them or situates them they can’t gain any heft. The chanting is benign and uninspiring. He fights back thoughts of continuing his tantrum, throwing the console through the wall, destroying the drums, killing the singers he has hired to do the chanting. Yet he knows the problem isn’t with the drums, it is with him.
No matter how he keeps trying to push himself into new forms of art and find new inspiration, his spark had been consumed the night of crash. Somehow the consequence of discarding his humanity had been the loss of the creativity that he cherished. Now he sits in the studio, feeling empty, hungry, angry, alone. Blood runs from his arm, over his fingers and onto the notebooks, but he can’t bring himself to heal his wounds. He just stares, entranced at the beauty of his essence leaving his body, and bleeds.
