War of Writing

He was a violent writer—every page, every paragraph, every sentence, every word was a battle in that great war of writing. He would often erupt in a outburst of criticism, questioning the competence of the tactics being used. Scrunching his face up, hands over his eyes or fingers running over his stubbled hair, he would renounce the entire campaign only to turn around and renew the fight, swearing before god and all creation that "i can finish this". Often a fog would descend just as the battles were starting, the weather forcing him to backtrack or even forget where he had started a few moments before. The confusion drove him to a near frenzied state of anxiety, turning from the enemy to himself he would scowl, clench his fists, scratch the ground, alternate between standing and sitting, only to witness the fog burn off in a blaze of illumination from where he knew not. By the end the battle he would stagger away utterly exhausted, barely able to stand or speak—filled with relief at the battle's finality he would sigh at the tentativeness of his survival and the certainty that he would relive the same series of events again and again. Any victory would come with the caveat that his actions, regardless of their success, would always be subject to scrutiny and uncertainty. Never could he leave the past, never could he forget what happened before, never could he let his footprints alone—for as soon as trod the ground he would turn and question the path he had just taken. Writing was but a weight that drove him towards a dark depth of nothingness, an inky blackness that could either engulf him in hopelessness and futility, or else be a rabbit hole that offered the promise of a wonderland of knowledge and understanding beyond.