Somebody pulled the string

A grey, dangling string eats the sky before you.

It occupies its space without pretension, without the private air of insecurity--without arrogance, presumption, lameness. Already this string has accomplished more than your idling self, you biting the tips of your fingernails and the backs of your knuckles.
How you want to just bite hard and lash away at your skin. How you just want to tear a big long strip of epidermis away until only raw red and white (and pink) speckled flesh shows through.
The string is still just hanging there, enticing, waiting for somebody to pull it.

And so you do.

And f'in hell rains down upon you.
A dark sticky mass of blood and people and guts of dead insects plops onto the floor. It sounds like suction, except backwards. Everything wet and slimy slurping, soiling the smooth wooden floor. You can smell hot steaming placenta and the acrid fumes of sweetly melting flesh as it falls down all around you--on you--mushed between your toes, under your fingernails, between the crevices of your wrinkled elbow. Everywhere. And it piles and piles and piles on top of your poor scrawny frame, burying you deep underneath an indistinguishable mass of disgustingly dead body parts.

You open your mouth and can't manage to say a thing. You don't squeak forth. You don't gasp or moan or yell or anything. When you open your mouth the only sound is that backward suction. Butchered cow intestines reaching inside your throat. Thick purple blood pooling around your warm tonsils. Fragile lacewings tickling the hollows of your cheek.

And a pumping gag reflex jerks your head forward, but there's nowhere to jerk forward. Your eyes fly open and smush into more shiny red membranes, pig stomachs and chicken livers.

Those are the last few convulsions of your small, idling, weak body. And then you die, and who the fuck knows what happens to you next.
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That, my dears, is what angst does to your writing. It sounds like something a screamo band would sing about.

Can't you just imagine their epic guitar riffs and the moaning lead singer, clenching his fists knuckle-white? Can't you just imagine everyone in the audience going fucking insane? Can't you imagine the girls screaming their brains out, coughing up bits of blood and pieces of their lungs? Can't you imagine the mass of human sweat and pain rocking out together in the most mindblowingly awesome concert of their lives?

And then it'd end. Everybody tired from expressing their intense, petty, overwhelming human suffering. Everyone's mind gone blank in the best exhaustion they'd ever felt.

Then they'd stumble out to their cars, and sleep, or drive slowly over to their motels or hotels or Goebbels. They'd nap soundly, happily, smilingly. Then they'd fucking wake up two months later, feeling the same aggressive rage, rocking out all by their oddy knocky selves to a sweet screamo song they once headbanged to at the best concert of their lives.

Anyway, I'm just being delirious. I can't think straight. I hope this goes away real soon.
I forget what greatness is. I don't remember the swelling feeling of admiration anymore. I haven't felt any newness or awe for ages, it seems. All I know is this floundering aimlessness called adolescent confusion.

This is why I like to learn. I'm grounded when I've something to pursue, to analyze, to learn. Otherwise I just feel so lost.

Oh well. Tomorrow I am going to see my hero, and I think that might take care of things.