No matter the
story, no matter the song, we sit there, seasoned vultures eying our next meal.
The heart, the mind, the beginning and middle and end, these satisfy us for
only a moment. Our consumption is absolute; never a word is left, only an echo
a few chapters later if they are lucky. To reclaim the fragile, word-laden breath
with which we first gave life - this is our deepest, darkest hunger. We hide
behind plot twists, we mislead our own minds’ Athenae with deus ex machinae and
denouements and other pretty little things that bring that sense of calm, of
salvation. But they should not be calm. They should panic. If only we let them,
they would.
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