The Red Lamentations of a Failed Conjuror

 The Red Lamentations of a Failed Conjuror

I am disenchanted from these mythical realms; the dragons that once ruled the skies, the twin violet moons that hung coupled with the stars, even the elves that swung from trees have all begun to acidify. There is nothing within these realms that are tangibly within the grasp of my pen. How can I write a world that is void of who I am as a writer? How could I possibly erase the connection I once felt with the occult? 

I am now filled with normlessness, Emile called it anomie; capitalism has robbed me of every connection I could’ve possibly had with my work. Why must what I write become a mere product? Why must I cut all ties to the worlds that I have fused every bit of me throughout? I won’t find peace within the panic of constant production—what nectar of praise could compare to the perpetual state of euphoria I have from the murder of my ego-death? To know the ecstasy of my ego-death I walk through a cemetery of dead poems and flash burnt fiction. I journey through a graveyard of failed potions and discarded spells that I once cherished. 

There is no solace putting my pen to paper; my laptop can no longer create a world magical enough to escape—what good is escapism, if there is no place where I can escape the pressure of performing? There is no escape from the alienation, the feelings of being divorced, from the worlds I have constructed out of thin air. 

The crimson ghost has left my shoulder. There are no ghouls gathering at the tips of my fingers; there is little graveyard dirt left trapped beneath my eyelids: all that remains is despair.

My words don’t take the shape of the worlds I’ve once conjured; the spells are useless; the potions have become mundane—conjuring worlds has become mere ritual. The Conjuror has lost his staff. The Wizard has misplaced his hat. 

Emile, your world of suicide seems to be the only world I can conjure, it appears to be the only place where I find my species being. This there any place for a failed conjuror? Or will I wander the world lamenting for an eternity? I would lament my failures as a writer, as I cry out into the void of the supernatural: “Emile, where are you? Karl, where are those opioids you spoke of because Christianity has numbed nothing? I am mourning with blood on my lips and bruises on my knees; I offered up my solace to God. I offered up all that I was as a conjuror; I received silence. I thought there might be something in His silence; I thought if I listened and prayed harder, I might find pity. Well… pity never came. My solace disappeared and all I was left with was the worlds I conjured.” 

In that moment, I found out there was no world for a failed conjuror. All that was supernatural will become natural, all that was natural will become dust—mythical dust. I now burn the worlds I once created from the potions and spells stored within my brain. They now burn so that I may be re-enchanted. The goblins and vampires have lost their warmth; there was once solace in winged creatures and ravenous vermin, now all is B L A C K. My red tears stain the pages. Tears are the only thing that seems to construct a story that I feel is true. Is there any way to weaponize my cherry red anguish? Can I mourn without the feeling that I have romanticized my grief? There is no romance in the feelings of despair and anguish. Grief is running from my pen; it fears that my conjuring may commodify its emotions. Emotions which have begun to spill over and seize control of my pen. My pages are red. I beg you to read the remainder of my story through these tears stained red pages. It is all the magic I have left—it is my last bit of solace.