A Confused Apocalyptic Melancholy

The best thing about writing is, that it allows you to erase any catastrophe, any disastrous mistake and start again. Oh what we wouldn’t give for life to be a page. Quick, somebody fetch me an eraser, I need to cover it all up with grubby dust. Smudge this illiterate mess back into the paper so that I can think with a clear head. Then again, what good story would be complete without a little grime, a terrifying rush of dizzying anticipation before stepping over the edge? What birth would be complete without blood and screaming, and just wanting It to end? That, I suppose, is our only comfort at this point in time, the stories tell us that it’ll all be fine in the end, the happy ending right? Skip to the last page and see what happens and miss all the pain, miss all the violent rage and saddening meekness of a plot that rides. Where’s the lesson in that? I think its important to remember that we’re just guessing, we always have been, but as the plot thickens so do the pages, and I just want the book to end so that I can go and have fun. Who wrote this fucking story? I’m bored of guessing, even if the bad guys win I just want to know so I can relax with a cool drink and know that the good guys were always fucked. Any distraction, I want this thing to get interesting or I’m going to put it down and just give up. Shit now I’m not making sense, and I’ve learnt by now that it helps to makes sense, otherwise you never get past the first chapter. What? This metaphor is a little stale now so I think ill roll on with simple meaning, after all, its easier to make sense of, and it helps to make sense, otherwise you never get past the first chapter.