Of Inky Zeniths

I haven't raised the pen in so long. It might have become rusty with alienation, dry with abandonment, or useless with uncertainty. I haven't raised it in so long that the mere thought of having it in my grasp, while feeling its unfathomable power, makes me fear its existence.

Why have I forgotten it?

No. I have not forgotten it. It is a lie just a few steps from the truth, yet I cannot face it in love or remembrance. For brief moments in eternity, I had it. I loved it. It ran in my veins and was one with me for so long that parting was hell and heaven at the same time. I wielded a power so potent that for interminable moments, I was my own god. I was the essence of the universe. I created life, and took it back. Exhilarating, addicting. It is a power that very few could brandish and still retain their sanity. The screaming contrasts would overcome and consume. Its pliancy would seduce and beckon, and once you are in the power's grasp, it would, in turn, bend you to its will.

I thrived in it, in that intangible ambrosia that would soothe and burn. Burn. I burned with it, each lick of fire had left gaping yet impalpable wounds. They had never closed, never healed, and to this moment, I am left gasping for the hand that will never reach out. I am left longing for it, thirsting and wanting, until there is nothing more left of me.

I haven't raised the pen in so long. And I may never will, in this lifetime, and all the lifetimes that may come after.