The Artiste and the Abyss

There are days on end she spent in an incredible fear that she may write no more.
Fear of being left in a condition unable to write, through mind or through physical self, fear of a loss.
Its extremely difficult to write when it requires an effort.
So soon after days of malaise and days of a draining boredom, she sat in front of a blank screen with her fingers on a keyboard, terrified of the fact that she may have nothing to say and in realization that this is a state of mind of a writer in a chaos of thoughts who either doesn't know where to start, or is afraid to speak her mind.
Yet she dared to challenge fear and give it a shot because she knew no better.

For the first time in her experiences she saw herself changing while life held still, whereas it's had always been the other way around.
There has never been an agitation in her heart greater than the turmoil outside of it before, which is why she'd gone on and on without either hesitating or ever wanting to know what it is that drove her.
She was suddenly faced with circumstances where she felt wronged while everyone she should've been accusing felt justified in doing what has been done to her bringing life around her to a screeching halt and turning up speed on her mind and soul to start searching for a truth she had always skirted, or is it one which has evaded her?

'Adventurous' is what he'd said to her, she had been, 'which you have to admit to if you want to survive hereafter', he had gone on to say at the time when everything in her world had turned on its head and time had frozen around her.
In him, her mentor, she had always believed.

She's like the lost in a forest who saw a familiar mark on a tree which gave her to believe that there had been life here, even if it was but an illusion only.
From the mark on the tree she'd followed the foot prints on the ground of what seemed like those of a dangerous beast who would tear her to shreds, yet feeling comforted she went on.
It made sense to be ripped apart by hungry teeth and devoured by a starving animal than to be lost in an abyss.
She also knew while on her way to her end that she had hope that the vicious cat might spare her and show her the way if he was satiated.
Because man, vicious or not, could not be trusted.
Man is never satiated.
The more he is fed, the more ruthless he gets, which to accept and digest as fact is the greatest learning for the ambitious, the adventurous.

The rules of the game are written by the ones who have it
The rules of the game are written only for those who have it.
Not at this juncture, like any other before this, was she willing to accept that she doesn't have it, because in all the paucity of material and kind, she now knew the game and like a gambler who starts with a bluff in a confidence of winning the first hand to be able to play the next, she could start again.

Adventure, they may call it, but left with no choice is the arguement of the artiste.
Because had she pulled off the bluff, would she be called an adventurer?
Had she escaped a satiated lion, you would've called her courageous?
The ace was never in her hands and the secret was never in theirs.

Art is a business and the artiste playing his role to perfection knows it better than the dream merchant.
She is humbled yet again to the lord almighty that yes, she is still able to write, so she ends this piece with a smile because she knows now that she hasn't lost everything in one more failure, but only gained the confidence of having learnt a little more.
And she will continue to write the book which has been completed so many times over in the last two years.