A Calling

"Between birth and death lies desire, 

Desire for life, for love, for everything good. 

And this is the source of all suffering."

A dim light from a candle flickers in the dark. Black ink drops onto the parchment lying on his wooden desk. His thumb carefully caresses the pencil in his hand, repeating the same circling movement over and over. Forgetting when he last ate, slept or bathed, he managed to count three sunsets since he first began writing. If it wasn't for the presence of Nyx, veiling the rays of light from the sun, he wouldn't have needed to disrupt his work to get candles and Lucifer matches. His scruffy beard is moist from sweat, his lips are chapped but sealed shut, his red skin carries a single salty waterpearl that falls and lands in the corner of the parchment. The empty parchment. His mind is in the state of complete bliss. He believes he must have emptied, not only his thoughts, but a part of his soul onto the previous four-hundred and fifty-seven pages. It was as if the pages had purified him, a spiritual tabula rasa. He rises from the creaking old stool and stands in front of the desk. He releases the strong grip of the pencil, dropping the tool he had clung onto for days, a tool that he had held onto for dear life, on the floor. His eyes fixate on the impressive stack of parchment that contains ink, sweat, and droplets of wax. His hand finds its way to the back of his neck, soothing himself as a brief moment of fear enters him. The fear of emptiness. Had he given too much of himself or had he given life to something remarkable?

Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos and dirt.

"Spiral, Spin, Ride the whirlwind; Knowing when the drumming stops, There'll be no second dance."