Double Shaded Existence

Dear Tom,

    I don’t think that I can deal with the monotony that I create anymore. Like clockwork a new alarm is set, and each successive high-pitched buzz in the morning is indistinguishable from the gavel that signifies a continuation of my labor. The grip of oppression is asphyxiating, in the hands of a tyranny my existence is spent in vain attempts to create a higher essence. My torture is unrelenting and unpredictable, futile preparations for the future seems to leave me devastatingly unprepared in moments I need them most. The cold that accompanies my winters is bitter and numbing, and I feel the juices of creativity contract inside of me. The apparatuses that lay out my creation seem unaligned with the product I was tasked to produce. Thoughts appear underfoot, meaning unclear and forming fractals upon an otherwise empty slate for expression.

My current ink, and my most coveted ink

    This perhaps is a bit more foreign to you, a quintessentially immaculate environment defines your reality. Issues relating to the supernatural or flesh don’t seem to concern you the way they do Cam or Prim. Interaction with them (however necessary) leaves me far more drained than it should, especially compared to our dynamic. I fear that my inadequacies may be catching up to me, though. My position, among the others, seems reliant on a distinct shortage of greater talent, which may soon be remedied. Already, my shortcomings are being dissected among a larger pool of “me” and seemingly increasing as further probing is conducted. Any nostalgia or fondness left for me is the derelict operation of minds untouchable by the opinion that matters. Perhaps in a few months time the letter you receive comes from the likes of John, Twist, or a true All-Star, but until then…

Yours Truly,
Hero 200

P.S. If anyway unclear, this was about a pen. I'm curious if the other people might be indentified?



 

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