Take your Prompt and Shove it…

…where the Sun don’t shine!

This is probably the most horrible prompt I’ve yet to set eyes upon… which is why I quite like it.

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Do or Die

You have three hundred words to justify the existence of your favorite person, place, or thing. Failure to convince will result in it vanishing without a trace. Go!

via The Daily Post’s daily prompt

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300 words!?! Fuck off! And fuck off to everything else about this prompt too!!!!

Yes, I said the ‘F’ word (that’s quite tame for me). I would have used it in the title, but I’m learning not to do that… sort of.

I can do this catering to others thing just so far before the beast inside rips its way out and lays waste to all the politically and otherwise correct stuff I’ve been trying to do for the sake of the sensitivities and sensibilities of others. My blog is public (before I edited this bit, a Freudian slip – typo – occurred in which ‘public’ was ‘pubic’… oh, how I laughed, then fixed it through tears of mirth because I’m not X-rated, perhaps I should be), I need to respect the public… sort of. But the beast within often has other ideas, and…

Then it’s The Murders in Rue Morgue all over again. But at least I’m not the one who has to investigate such a puzzling mess. I know how the story goes… maybe you do too and so you don’t have to figure it out either.

That’s the first story by Poe which I read, but I knew him before that.

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PoePoe Foundation

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I got to know him through the medium of television when I was probably too young for such a thing – Poe, not TV. Blame my parents if you need to play the blame game. They were very strict in certain things yet incredibly lax in others. Exposing me to adult stuff was a lax area… sort of.

Allowing me to watch The Premature Burial…

Oh… the horror, the horror, of being buried alive and no one can hear you. They’re all mourning your parting, your early death… but you’re not dead. They’re crying, feeling sorrow for such a loss of theirs… but you’re not lost. They’re bemoaning their pain… but what about your pain. They can hardly breathe because of their misery… what about you, their misery is being fed by oxygen while yours is due to being starved of it, caused by a lack of it – you’d be fine if you could just breathe. Bang, bang, bang, fingernails, fingers bloodied, clawing at the weight which silences you… while they all talk loudly of your passing and how it affects them… unaware of how it affects you.

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“Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

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I could go on and on about how deeply this story drove nails into the coffin of living for me, encouraging life rather than discouraging it, and made me adore its existence, and love the one who created it for me to find and connect with. It explained everything before I knew there was an anything which needed such a thing.

I adored Poe from the moment I was horrified by his creations. There’s a certain kind of horrification (screw it, it’s a word for now) which is thrilling and attracts rather than repulses.

You know it does even if you’d rather not know that. I know you want to hide it somewhere the Sun does not shine a light on it, but it’s there anyway and can be seen without light. There’s a reason why we’re often afraid of the dark. It knows stuff about us. Seeing is not the only way to believe.

Poe knew stuff about the dark side of being human. He tapped into to and horrified us with the pleasure of it. That’s why we love him, yet fear him… his work, him, his life.

His life… and what occurred therein. In some ways more horrific than what was within his harrowing tales of fiction inspired by…reality perhaps rather than substances abused in his time and place.

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“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

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Until recently I did not know that he had his very own ‘narcissist’ lay waste to his life, and not just his but that of those who were connected to him, even by very tenuous connections.

I was idly wiki-ing and the story unfolded after following a link from Poe’s bio page, in the bit about Griswold’s “Memoir”.

A dramatic tale of obsession, and obsession within obsession. First a man obsessed, scorned and scornful, intent on destruction because of hurt pride of one admired. Then a woman obsessed, scornful and scorned, who insinuated herself into the lives of those with whom she became obsessed, Poe being a main one, but not the only one, wreaking havoc… from a safe distance, cossetted by her own placement. If ye olde worlde shit hit ye fan… it would not splatter her, but she could enjoy the schadenfreude of those whom it splattered.

Twas ever thus… and horrific.

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“There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of Hell. ”
― Edgar Allan Poe

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Sometimes we need to be horrified.

The very idea that if I don’t do what the prompt instructs a great literary genius could be wiped from our memories… says more about the person who created this prompt than it does about how the world actually works. What are you afraid of, prompt-creator? That we’ll notice how fragile you are? No. Not that. You’re in a position of strength for us (and over us) as prompt-creator. So, perhaps… you’ve experienced something which made you feel insignificant. Bang, you’re dead, gone, annihilated, no one notices or cares… so you’re expressing your fear through a prompt. Your ego needs to do to others what it momentarily felt was done to it. Ego… that bane of humans, both within us and within others. It means well, but the road to hell was paved with the well-meaning of ego.

Welcome to being so very hopelessly and horrifically human. Poof… we’re gone, no one cares… okay, some do, but they’ll get over it. Life goes on because that’s what it does, and it does what it needs to do to do so. You can’t stop it or play god with it, even if ego tells you that you can… momentarily, through a prompt like this.

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“Even in the grave, all is not lost.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

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Sometimes we’re gone… and sometimes we’re gone when we’re not. Someone banishes us the way this prompt promises/threatens to banish another if a certain needed criteria isn’t met.

Life, the world, does not work that way… the human mind does sometimes work that way… but even that is prone to premature burials… and ejaculations due to burials… sort of.

Feel free to delete Poe from existence… if you can.

Methinks you’ll end up in that place which prompted this prompt to be created, banging on the lid of a coffin, no one listening… and so you made a vow, a pact with some inner devil, that if you survive then someone else will take your place. A soul for a soul, and yours is the one benefiting in the short-termery of things here and now, but in the long-termery of things to come, who knows. Sometimes it is not the unknown which frightens us, but what is known and what we want to be unknown… sort of.

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“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

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