The Con Artist: A Writer’s Alter Ego

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I went in search for words, yes words. I searched for them in some reserved place in my brain where only poetic words exist, and I came back empty.

The gate was locked and the new keys I didn’t have. Those who bestowed me with this gift decided to talk to me through the barricade. I asked for my offense, and they said:

”you were given a gift to turn situations and circumstances into words, to create stories out of paintings, to heal the wounds of soldiers gone to war, to bring communities together as one, and to fight for the unjust. This gift you have misused, you have become selfish, you have intensified your emotions and turned them into theories and philosophies for the feeble minded to feed on. Your greed has made you neglect you duty and for these sins your gift of words will be your punishment”.

I have all the words, from minute to ambiguous, from careful to harmful. They are all in my head running around like tiny ants around the spilt milk but I can make nothing of them. I have so much but can do so little, so my gain has become my loss, my obsession now my affliction, and my gift now my curse. This isn’t for me alone, this is for us all, us bestowed with the gift of word. Are we doing it right? Are we being selfish or selfless? Are we misinforming our audience, are we so consumed with immortalizing ourselves that we do not care what we convey? Why are we becoming callous?

I had my poem all lined up but my words have given up on me. Till I find something more soothing for you to read than the thick fibres of my deep dark little secret, savour on the pain my words have caused me and pray for an easier death.
Yours truly;
The Con Artist

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