Blog (2023)

Addiction

The boy and his friend ventured to a museum. They approached the bronze statue of a man, a knight of noble bearing, brandishing a sword of triumph. The young one contemplated, gazed skyward, and uttered, "Does he ever get tired of the monotony of his daily routine, day in and day out, for the entirety of his existence?" His companion maintained a stoic demeanour, and together they perused the other exhibits. The statue exhaled a deep breath and pondered to itself, "Another influx of imbeciles for the day."

***

         As with most writers, they cannot help but envision themselves as knights in shining armour, wielding their pen like a mighty sword. Somehow, Koe did not envision herself as a valiant warrior charging into the fray, brandishing her sword, and unleashing a fierce battle cry. Koe found herself in a surreal state, observing her own body lying on an operating table.
         Koe's sentiments towards her craft resemble those of a surgeon conducting a post-mortem examination on herself. She delved deep within herself, wielding a sharp scalpel to extract any remnants of knowledge she could salvage. Even now, she continues to grapple with the reasons behind her unyielding pursuit of understanding. At times, the universe appears to acknowledge her revelations, but more often than not, it remains indifferent, and yet she persists in her actions with a sense of ceremony. Sometimes, she contemplates whether it is an addiction. Who can truly fathom the experience of a writer until they have donned the shoes and walked the path as one of their own? That, my friend, is the only path to becoming a writer—to write, and to write fervently, if one is so inclined.
         Pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin, intertwined in a dance that we cannot escape. It was merely a day of excavating herself from within. If she weren't cautious, she might just bleed herself dry in the process. If such an occurrence were to transpire, she would mend her wounds and convalesce. That was the moment when Koe would persuade herself to immerse herself in the act of reading. She decided to pause and release her hair for a brief moment.
         After that, Koe, who fancied herself a writer, would commence slicing herself open from within, repeatedly and without respite, until her spirit could bear it no longer. Somehow, she felt a strange sensation in her gut that there could never be enough as she grasped her surgical knife.