“The Library of Self burned down today, Wednesday, September 18th, 2024–my fortieth birthday.
I was in the middle of it, with its endless rows of books I’ve written and have also put on the shelf unpenned for another day, waiting for the vision of you, the horned demigod, The Greatest I, to show up in your gleaming armor of inspiration. You were nowhere. You haven’t shown up for me, especially where or when I expect you to, for years.
Without you here, Great One, I can’t open or close the blinds to my home or my mind in comfort. I can’t enjoy the movie theater experience, especially the beauty of being alone in one, like I once did.
I can’t even write the briefest of stories. They are for the optimistic. They are for those who still think the world will eventually heal itself of its ailments.
I can’t even hear a song, especially one of the happy tunes from my youth that always motivated me to sing, to feel the bud of promise, to be nostalgic, open eyed, in the same way anymore.”
A year passes. The war inside me continues.
“I last spoke to you, The Greatest I, a year ago today. I still haven’t seen a trace of you show up anywhere.
You told me that this would happen when I reach a continuous level of uncertainty, anxiety from standing in the wreckage—the will for change that arrives in the middle of the road of life.
You told me that this would happen when I find out that the path I’ve solely dedicated to the first half of my life, with its middling successes and innumerable false starts, isn’t as fulfilling or promising anymore.
You told me that this would happen when I see the breakdown of humanity, its manners and artistic interests deteriorating more by the day, and wonder why I am still trying, still desperately doing what I do.
Even sleep is impossible as a result of not seeing you or feeling your presence anymore, oh, horned demigod, The Greatest I.
Will you return in days, months, years?”
Then, I, the nameless one who is forever waiting, anxious, unsure, catch the gleam of something falling.
A tear.
Andrew Buckner is a multi award-winning poet, filmmaker, and screenwriter from Ohio. Also a noted critic, actor, and experimental musician, Buckner runs and writes for the review site AWordofDreams.com.