By Rania Hanna
The literary ghoul fed off the withered pages of decaying literature. Voltaire spoke to him from the fading inks coloring the pages; while Thoreau whispered haunting politics. He fed off the thoughts of dead souls. His blood was books. He wandered around the maze of unforgiven mental revolutions, feeding off the carnal words of forbidden literature. He fed his knowledgeable zeal with impeccable devotion. The pages bled out their ink. Bringing the books to his lips, he drank the blackened liquid and gained nourishment in this way. He ripped out the pages of the books, feeding his mouth with them. Through the eroding library he wandered around, ripping his victims out from their binding and gorging himself on them. The words he hunted, while they themselves hunted him. Emerging slowly from the leaves, the words haunted him. They attacked his fragile sanity, and terrorized his brain-washed mind. The chains that fettered him were tightened agonizingly by the thought of the past. But still he fed, the words nourishing him. Without their knowledge, he would die. But with them, he would also die. Death was inevitable; but a brain-washed death was honorable. Thus, he fed and swallowed insatiably. His mind evolved as the literature devolved. This he understood not, but still he remained in the books’ intoxicating presence. They hunted his mind, and haunted his sanity. And he ate. He stalked predator and prey. He tore at the pages, chewing them thoughtfully, swallowing them ravenously. He became drunk on the lies, but he believed them as unadulterated truth. His pale flesh soaked in the inky darkness, and painted itself with truthful untruths. He wandered outside, his soul slumbering and dead. He thought and thought, his mind spitting forth wild theories. And his wild theories called for even wilder actions. He preyed on living flesh, craving the blood of actual corporeality. He saw the girl and stalked predatorily to her.
Labels: Rania Hanna