(Image from the Public Domain. Frank Miller’s DareDevil. 1986)
Why do you struggle?
I can’t do it anymore.
I have told you before, the Universe doesn’t care about, Nature certainly doesn’t care as you perish into nothing. It is now, the moment. To see, is to accept. If it is too awful. Good. You need to embrace pain. Absorb it, take it and then conquer it.
The man continues to lie, in this small apartment, the noise of the street, the yelling of people, a loud television can be heard from across the layaway. Reports of terrorism, mass shootings, death.
The sound of humanity in all it’s glory.
I don’t think there is any point to it all. The man says eyes shut, lying on his side, there is a vague stench of unwashed bed sheets.
The shadowy figure looks down at him
Pitiful…In it’s decline. What man is, what man could have become. The point of it all, the meaning of life… It smiles …To sin, enjoy the pleasures of a short existence and it’s fruits, to have no regrets. Unshackle oneself from the bondage of that encased morality.
The man moves sitting up on the edge of the bed, he looks down at his hands, then at the walls of the dark and dank small room.
What is weakness?
Submission to fear of the unknown, when the unknown doesn’t exist. The spectra walks across to the window looking at he street. It begins to laugh. What is weakness? The deep red hue of it’s eyes of this apparition looks up at the darkness outside, the illuminated signs of advertising, the selling and buying of dreams. A temporary fix in all it’s inanity. It then looks back at the man sitting.
It is this…In it’s pure form. helpless, despairing, despondent, depressed. You should not pity yourself… from outside there is a scream, yelling and police sirens. ...Nor anyone else. Pity is a curse, a human flaw. Pity leads to self loathing, self loathing leads to self destruction. Self destruction leads to the destruction of others. A downward spiral of annihilation. Starting from this point…It continues looking at the streets below, with it’s left hand it points at the man sitting on the edge of his bed.
I am wasting time
The figure turns and stares directly at the man. This could, in it’s appearance, be a frightening spectra of the imagination, but it is not. In it’s apparent realism, the ghostly presence is a representation of power. However it is not the helper but rather the antagonist. Now you are getting it, time you cannot waste, you strive and then you die. Otherwise you’ll regret everything that you did not do, that you could have done…you’ll wither away in this life before your final moments. It must be reminded you only get one life, don’t live as a dream, don’t let anything or anyone control or restrict your reality. More importantly do not let yourself be your own enemy.
The man looks across to a small desk, in which on the tabletop lies a pen and paper. I understand. He then stands, the figure in-front him within this dark space dissipates. The man walks across to a chair lifting his jacket placing it on, he then looks at his wristwatch. Seeing that the local deli is still open, he opens his wallet, all that remains is a ten dollar bill. Smiling. He’ll pay for the strong alcoholic beer, steal the chocolate bar come back to this apartment and begin writing.