This flashfiction was written today. It is about opinions and how some people like to push theirs down your throat, but they can never listen to anyone else’s. They can only shout you down. That isn’t debate, it’s dictation. But what bothers them most is not to care what they say.
A human, see the spit sit frothy on the purple lips, bursting-full with outdated opinions shouts me down into the dry well.
But I am no longer there.
I have been busy digging west and come out into the new blue light years away.
Lonely, free and deaf.
I don’t normally see the purpose of expressing opinions on blogs, they can read like a tiny voice shouting into an abyss. However, a question has been pressing on my mind for a few days:
Why do I write?
I do not write for money, or fame or critical applause. I write for you, my reader. I write to speak to you from far away in space and time. I write to speak to the reader yet to come, the person hopefully sitting reading my work a thousand years from now. I write to say that I once felt as you do now, I too once breathed, laughed, cried, hurt and strived.
My writing is my cave painting, my graffiti on the wall of time.
I was here.