The Pragmatist's Flame

The corner of Edward’s fireplace burned intensely, reducing to ash whatever remained of that entire fiction. As fictitious as the hatred and burning content may seem stirring in his eyes, observers will scarcely applaud the incinerated fantasy of those beliefs. Believing introspectively or crediting falsely the reason for such activity, with either choice, Edward soon dove into a suffocating pool where the full alternative for life became a strive for unplugging the withholding effort of his ideas... Flaming into smoke, some overflowing delineated boundaries and intoxicating the office room where Edward found himself compulsively writing days afore, attempting to acquire a small fortune to finance bills and license papers to come. It was a beautiful idea, creatively inspired and fantastically undertaken, though, a pragmatists image mutes in its emotional ignorance, and our brave writer, posterior to only a few hours of careful deliberation, fell into an abyss of great aversion and succumbed to an arrear of his words, in time, he wrote his own insanity. Edward’s hand flew with the available ink, depicting imagery in addition to words, and then it bled! Blood rose from the inches of skin, travelled from the metaphysical encapsulation of his concealed mind, exploded with tearing at his obsolete understanding of life, and dribbled from the proximity of his pen, and wrote something even farther provoking than the natural fluid of revelation. What was he writing? Whatever conturns they were, that edge of moral capacity morbidly froze, and nothing except fuzzy recollections and terrifying pictures remained in Edward’s memory. What is more, his piece must have been complete as he awoke from the disturbing sleep against his desk, finding blood stained papers and surface, depressive agony showered within thought, and he knew that he had to burn everything...

Then he wrote anew...