A mental obstruction is thriving within. Inspiration is fleeting, elusive, and my affinity with words have entered the valley of Death. The last 3 weeks at sea have drained me of all conscious thought and enlightening inspiration, compressing me into dull pulp.

Paralysis

Why have you brought me here? Have I disobeyed you, that you should withhold the fruits of my soul? I feel isolated and cut off from your presence, with no hope of return. You have covered my face with ashes, that my eyes see not the wonder of life, nor partake of its treasure. I am stricken with self-obsession and conceit. I eat, but I do not taste, I breathe, but I am dead. I call out to you, but no one hears. My echoes speak to me in the night, bidding me to hold my silence, as I numb myself to a fragmentation of conscience. Neither kin nor friend can summon the tides of delight to the shores of my sorrow. I have lost things I never caught hold of, as beings fade to specters the moment they walk past me.

Mindless maundering, a blind man stumbles his way into the midst, never aware of the pit that lies before him. His path is wrought with thorns, and they pierce his feet, rancid blood flowing from broken veins. In the crevices of his darkness he beholds, smiling masks and malicious chuckles. He knows some voices, but most are alien to him. Whispers of fallacies, conniving charlatans, they tell tales of empty consequence, of placid dreams disporting by the edge of insanity.