Why would one spend their time on this planet writing? I suppose there are worse things to do. Pouring a bottle of bleach down one’s arsehole would be one of the many things that are worse. What’s worse is if nobody reads the material. And, for sure, not many people do. So to ask the question of why would one write when nobody reads your material. Well, it’s a journey, isn’t it? You never know where your writing will take you. Whether it’s to power and glory, or whether it’s to the pits of the gutter.

Edward’s writing had taken him to the pits of the gutter. And in those pits he found the exploration of consciousness and the divine instinct that drives us all. That divine instinct that the dispossessed so often crave. Writing like a demon with a cigarette hanging outside his mouth. He had pushed the boundaries of his own consciousness as much as possible. The fire that burnt within the soul was long from extinguished. It had only begun to be lit. At points where the wind blew, it brought it down to a simmering flame. Though so often the rain did threaten to extinguish the light that it shared.

Hatred and malice. The writer battles them both, for constant deflection of attention for the practice of his art. Those pits of disgust are where he drew the energy to carry on. And still, for all the love he could have poured into the practice, the love was denied him. Such is the empowerment of the disempowered. The gutter is a fine dwelling for the pursuit of this art. Oh, if only they had the comprehension to understand the exquisite nature of shit. Those little nuggets of shit. They give off such a fragrance. A powerful smell to note. That is where those who dwell in the gutter belong. Amongst all the shit and upheaval. The pus and betrayal. The gutter is a fine place. People pour their vile and bile into the gutter. If you lay in the gutter long enough, you’ll find all of it wash over you. In quite a contrast to the comfort of power and glory. The gutter is where ideas and ideals breed. The gutter is where ideals belong, no other place has greater need of them.

And that’s where Edward lay. He lay in the gutter. A series of events had thrown him there. So he sparked up another cigarette and laughed. “Fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em all!” People walked past and ignored him. They had other things to do with their time, not necessarily better things, just other things. People did not stop to ask how he was or what he was doing with himself. They just continued on their path.

He wrote like a demon. A demon possessed by the craft. His mind was a whitewash of fury and malice. He was loving the fact that they threw their shit at him. It gave support to his conception of their apelike qualities.

So without the money or value to do anything else. What else was he meant to do apart from imagining fantasies and live in a world of his own construction. It was better than living in their world. Their world of shit. He would rather live in his world of shit than somebody else’s world of shit. Their world of shit of material worth that devalues the human spirit. Their world of shit that has no God. Their world of shit where justice does not prevail. The world is shit. Why wouldn’t you attempt to live in another world?

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