Useless Treatment Methods: The Animal I Brutalized Without Accepting Responsibility
A work paralyzed by wrongly applied colors stands before me. I think until my stomach aches to fix it, to find its cure. I hope to solve everything before the weight in my stomach turns into a foul-smelling feces. I've always had ideas I could flush down the toilet, and now I have more. I have to do something for the strange thing in front of me; I have to find a way to turn it into a more watchable and less nauseating entity as it rolls on the ground like a sweaty, hairy-skinned animal.
If you asked it, it would say it's my fault it's in this state and that it wants to do its best to get away from me, but don't believe its lies. It wasn't in this state when I left it; it had the scent of flowers drowning in color. When you looked at it, your mind and heart would be at ease, you would think that 24 hours would not be enough to look at it more. It was striking, like a novel worked on for years, like it came from the pen of a master writer, but now its transformation into this state, into a sound as meaningless as a one-syllable exclamation, breaks my heart.
If I don't find a good idea and get it back on its feet, I must dig a deep pit where I can destroy it. I must throw burning tires on it and make sure it's gone, then I must pray that no one notices its ashes rising to the sky. I don't pity its old eyes looking at me; it should have known it was more than a work of art and shouldn't have appeared before me this way. Now, I will act as if I am not responsible for this, cover it with a thick blanket, and go to sleep; I always find good ideas in my dreams. I found it that way in the beginning too.
September, 2025 by Demon Ego
