Contemplations v1.0

You know what it's like to be a writer, here? Around these parts? Doesn't matter where "these parts" is, it can apply to any place on the planet. It starts with boredom. You get bored, you write something and if you don't suck that much: you write for real. Eventually shit gets nasty. Realising you’re a writer, you start living like one. It doesn’t matter if you wrote a bestseller or if you are a wanna-be, as long as you feel the mutation: a plague wreaking havoc on you and (if you’re a good writer) on the people around you. Some of the plagues’ symptoms include:
     
      1)Alcoholism
      2)Anti-social behavior (a personal favourite is destroying tables while high on three different things)
      3)Changes in eye sight, the victim suddenly sees more than “ordinary” people can. A lamp in the middle of a dark, snowy  night suddenly becomes a deity to the victim worthy of worship or, even worse, using in artwork.
      4)Changes in other senses. Crappy music becomes good music (yes, even Lynyrd Skynyrd), vodka goes down the throat a lot easier.
      5)Hyperactive sexual drive. The victim of the plague suddenly gains an increased sexual performance, both physically and mentally, and as a result: mingles with suspicious minds and bodies.
      6)Unusual pattern of amnesia. The victim suddenly starts forgetting where he is from and why the fuck is he here (not on this world, but right here where he is standing).

Probably the worst symptom the mutation brings, is that the victim starts calling himself “a writer”. Scientists are still trying to figure out what “a writer” is exactly, but until then they believe it has something to do with global warming, just like those damn hippies. Hopping trains and wandering about suddenly becomes as important as oxygen. A writer chooses a path. A writer will loose himself on this path, a fact he is fully aware of. Other people have dreams, ambitions. They want a job, a family, a good life and maybe even a nice house by the sea. None of these things are of any interest to the writer. A writer wants to see and feel excess, madness, bloodthirst, change, love, pain and disease of both mind and body. He realizes that the order of things is like a corpse. A corpse whose innards are being devoured by maggots, a corpse rotting in the sun and emitting gut wrenching smells of death and decay. Scavengers and parasites feast on what’s left of the cadaver’s flesh, a cadaver that is “order”. Such thoughts go through the writer’s mind faster than they can take shape: love, death, escape, sex, drugs, comedy, roses, monsters, weddings, funerals, drunkenness, depression, anxiety, happiness, the stars, the sun, heresy, ideals, lust, friendship, meanings, existentialism, violence, blood, disease, the sea, the forests, the mountains, the clouds, hell, pits of darkness, war, shadows, fogs, the cold, and in the end even nothingness finds a place. Victims of the mutation often use a method to control these mind-bogging rivers of thought. They write words on paper, or type them on their computers. Sometimes other people read those words, and that is how the mutation spreads. The mutation is a vile disease, and there is only one way of dealing with it: extermination. Even though writers often push themselves into their own doom, it is not fast enough to stop the plague from spreading onto innocent minds and infesting them. Therefore the mutation and all who carry it must be eliminated, their minds must be burned like heretics on a stake. Destruction of the mutation can be achieved through a rigid school system of endless fact, denying that silly things like “emotions” exist, cold and rigid bringing up, or by simply grouping the victims in with other lunatics, thus preventing them from achieving uniqueness.

The writers are the lost and the damned, they chose so themselves.