I am steadily navigating my way through my second novel, and this journey has proven to be more intense than the previous; but, my progress is constant, no matter how few words are written per day: the story is still being told. I’m keeping the details of this second plot close to my chest, along with the title, but that does not mean I am unwilling to share an excerpt. I will give no background or foreground knowledge about the story, I will simply leave this task to your own imagination. And then, when you’ve finally forgotten about it, I will have completed this second work. (also excuse any grammar errors, this is still draft I).
“What must a man do when he has become tired of everything, but himself? Does he spend his days shamelessly entertaining the dull crowd of fodder, or does he disappear into the chasms of his own being, becoming a recluse and myth in the process?” Baudelaire spoke as he lit the oil lamp that hung in the corner of his sculpting studio. It was a lavish construct, crafted by an architect who was known for his appreciation for space and silence. Various works lined the walls: a replica of William Blake’s David and the Dragon was above the furnace, a scroll that had a Chinese character written in calligraphy, and two bastard swords that had been shipped from Italy. His residence was a den of relics, pieces made by the hands of daring artists who ventured beyond the conventions; however, they did not come close to the majestic collection of sculptures that he’d created.
Baudelaire ran his finger along the bridge of Pope Paralaxiu, the supreme religious leader in his generation, and blew away the marble dust. “Another completed model, and yet I have been unable to shake this stirring in my soul. Why does my heart not well up as it did when my hands first took hold of the chisel?” On his carved desk were various tools that he used to sculpt, and pinned on the wall, above the counter, was his first hammer. Nostalgia beckoned his attention to the metallic tool. “Ever since my boyhood, I have done nothing but create. Sculptures and paintings, critical essays and discussions, and yet, what have they brought me? Where is the joy that is supposed to exist at the end of an arte? Have I been chosen to be deprived of it, malnourished from this nutrient that my soul craves in order to survive?” Next to the toolkit was a leather pouch the Church’s messenger had delivered; Baudelaire noted that religious men tended to carry gold faster than they did the gospel. “And this,” he opened to reveal both jewels and gold, “are men foolish enough to believe I create in order to amass a fortune of these arbitrary trinkets? Coins and gems, and coins and gems, and COINS AND GEMS! That’s all they wish to reward me with rather than…well I doubt they will be able to reward me with anything that can satiate my restlessness,” he confessed to himself. The flame flickered and plume of sawdust danced in the embers. “I am wasted here! This life is but a fool and it is because society has no desire to do anything, but consume. They care not for intellectualism or philosophy, or even how to become a human being. No, they are solely focused on the productions and consumption, turning us artists into beasts of burden who must birth the objects of their desire. How many eyes have I molded that are more authentic than the irises of those who gaze upon them?” There was an angered tone in his voice which caused him to reach for the bottle of fermenting wine that he’d left under his desk. Removing the cork with his molars, Baudelaire recklessly took a swig that could’ve cured dehydration in a dying man. His lips were removed from the bottle, along with the hammer that was on the wall. “And what am I left with, but marble and blood?”
Suddenly, the hammer came crashing down on the desk and rocked the frame, tipping the pouch over. The mass of gems spilled and Baudelaire swatted them away with his hands. Emeralds and coins went flying across the floor as if a star had just exploded and released cosmic shrapnel into space. “Well I say damn the trinkets! Damn the constructs of this world!” Again, the hammer came crashing down against the desk until he turned the head on the bust of the Pope. Soon, pieces of marble were scattered across the floor and the skull of the sculpture sunk into itself. A thick cloud of sediments and dust escaped from the remains, and Baudelaire bared a devilish grin. “They are not aware that artists are not just creators…the live for destruction too!” His aggression brought the weapon down, repeatedly, on the face until it was reduced to a pile of smoothened rubble. One of the eyes had been tossed towards the painting on the wall, and Baudelaire rushed towards it, flailing madly. He tore at the piece, and sparked the furnace to life, by tossing the oil lamp into it. Now he was surrounded by darkness, and the only source of illumination was from the mouth of this oven; but the shadows did not prevent him from stopping his rage. “Countless days I have spent shouldering myself to this society in hopes of living comfortably. I have put my own person aside just to enter their realm of reality. But I dare to take him back. No, they will not have this essence of me, they must not! I will leave, and erase my name from this world. I will become the myth that men whisper to each other with envy. I will show them…that to live as one’s own self is a far greater luxury than the royal jewels of a corrupt court. And if I do not…then let my soul be eternally tortured by the curse of feigning an existence. I have wasted enough of my precious ego trying to craft my ideas into tangible constructs, just so men and women can criticize it for not meeting a noble standard.”
The furnace burned brightly for Baudelaire had cast nearly all of his possessions into the flame while shrieking. He took one more, drowning swig of the bottle to drain the wine, and he tossed the glass into the oven, which exploded upon contact. A few stray embers escaped into the engulfing darkness, and the madman dropped his hammer on the floor; the resounding chime of the metal brought him out of his berserk-like rage into reality. Into the destroyed studio that had once been decorated with the most majestic of man’s creations. “It is pointless to change the world. It is pointless to attempt a coup of society’s consciousness. No more…I will resist no more. I will depart. Leave this existence where it stands and forget all of this had ever happened. After all, death is the only release from this suffering.” He brought the chisel that had been with him since the beginning to his wrist. The jagged edge nicked his skin and instantly drew blood.
Amidst the wreckage he laid, with his palms coated in the dust of the shattered sculptures. The gnawing flame had tended into something more docile. A stray beam of the dawn infiltrated the dark expanse, bringing with it a faint light and warmth to the phantoms that had comforted the deranged man throughout the night. His tired eyes followed the sunbeam from the port of entry-a cracked window he purposely never fixed-towards something positioned on a column. Baudelaire rose from the rubble, dusted off the destruction, and guided himself to the surviving piece. His eyes widened, “what can I say about this moment that will do it justice? Indeed, if I were a man who did not believe in the power of fate, I would truly mark this off as a sign from the divine.” He removed the chisel from the base of his wrist and set it in his pocket, freeing his hands so they could tacitly inspect the lone statue in front of him. “But…I am not sure if this is a smile from fate. Could it be something more? Why, out of everything that was destroyed tonight, did this manage to survive the chaos? This is by no means a coincidence and, perhaps, it is a possible answer to the questions that plague my mind.” His hands traced along a smooth jawline that was defined like a majestic cliff. The lips that were placed in the center were slightly large, but thin enough to stay still when listening. “I will only…” eyes sharp as arrowheads, “believe in…” his eyes. “You.” Fragments of soon-to-be-forgotten figures were thrown across the floorboards, all lying underneath the mold of his own face. Although, it has been near the other pieces, it had somehow avoided the destruction. “Only I remain.” With this realization his knees buckled, and tears streamed from his eyes as the chisel rolled out of his hand. The rage that had fueled his rampage was gradually substituted by exhaustion; he now lay flat on the floor, devoid of any sensation. Unconsciously, as if being controlled by the statue, Baudelaire raised his hand toward the crack of light and attempted to snatch the divinity, disguised as particles of dust, just as a man does when he is finally himself.