a black thing

it's a black thing we do, when we create; holding a ball of the abyss in your hands. we toss it to and fro like a child's toy and with every volley we are, little by little, touched by the darkness. changed in Nietzschean ways. I have dust in my system and saviors in my shoulders. but for some it's a farce of the most sickly pale serene. heroes are frail like hot metal and failures are dense like clay. both break when under stress, but malleable when the time comes for reparation. less of a kill, because there's less of this version of the abyss.

he broke the breadline one too many times, and left us bereft of his oblations. albeit, the descent is far too easy to traverse. yet, the river is what he wanted, and he seemed to find his avenue of escape. he found his infinite dark. years spent searching, and spent searching years.