To Pause the Hands of Time

To have the power to either slow down time and give one more time to do all the things they dream of doing or to either stop time and make it work for their own benefit.

This was the idea from the beginning when I started writing and was fairly pleased with the outcome. I never knew it would escalate into a catastrophic event that would lead to the end of time that we presently take for granted.

It was while testing the waters that I discovered with my very own words put onto paper that I had full control and full power to place things where I wanted them, exactly.

I was thinking, "If I only had the power to change things, or set things in a different direction, then maybe the next phase would be different or better." Yet I was wrong on all accounts and may have caused the end of mankind in its own present state.

I smiled. It was that feeling of a God-like complex, which gives you much to be responsible for and yet not understanding that with more responsibility comes more problems and it does not stop there.

It becomes a yearning for the idea or ideas that begin to take shape and form in your mind. The ones that fully form begin to go from the mind onto paper, more like doodling. Then the doodling becomes actual words and phrases.

You then start to write and type them. "What if your thoughts that you are thinking about become more of a reality by what you think and what you say or write onto paper?" "You might begin to become absorbed by the very things you were thinking and writing that could start the ball rolling."

I shuddered at the thoughts I was presently thinking. I was not aware of the things I was writing to use them as a weapon of destruction. To take life instead of giving life. To speak as God has spoken in the beginning and it ignite a chain of events that would form into something more sinister.

"How I concluded that my words would do more harm than good?" "How did I feel when I took notice of all that was granted to me and made known of what I was capable of to do?" I have to say that I was never fully aware, and no one pointed this out to me.

I stumbled upon the notion of all the many thoughts I had, all the many moments of thoughts, and the thoughts that were yet to form in my mind.

"How was I able to process this and yet remain sane at best?" "How was I able to have a clear conscious either during or even after that damage was being done or had been done?"

Most would say I had a lot of nerve doing what I did with the written words and the words placed onto paper. To let this become my own undoing by writing about things that would cause an uprooting of all that was held dear and was precious. To never consider what I was doing was less than human, less of one who had no sense of guilt or wrongdoing.

I felt in my heart, in my mind, in every fiber of my own being that it was wrong. I would see the way it could help others, yet I was more hellbent on being the bad guy and destroying all that was around me. Like I could solve any problems, answer any questions, respond in kind but with a writing of words, those things were whisked away into oblivion. Poof gone.

I was never short on words. Never at a loss for them. Never had writer's block or writer's obstacle or whatever they called it. I was always able to find a word and transform that word into a sentence. The sentences became paragraphs and so forth.

I would draft short stories. I would draft long stories. I wrote until my hands cramped and my vision was blurred by lack of sleep. Even as I fell asleep from doing too much for too long, I awoke to the stories being placed beside my typewriter, in a neat stack, completed.

I was astounded. I was without cause to seek out the reason(s) behind my having a finished story. As though while I was asleep there was something more devious and eviler making my words become a reality.

I then and only then realized that it was the plan from the beginning to make use of the very thoughts and ideas become the way to cause destruction and chaos. As soon as word was spread and the gossiping and rumors started, I went into hiding.

I was ashamed with how such an innocent thing as writing could bring about such damage. They say, "Be careful what you wish for." "Be careful what you want to have happen or to take place." "I had no idea this was meant to be literally."

I then tried to disappear from the world. I tried to change my appearance, and they found me. I moved to places all over the world, to no avail and with no peace of mind in sight, I was alone and left without any resolve. Yes, they still found me.

"How did they find me each and every time, you ask?" "It was my passion and addiction to the written words that formed in my mind as only thoughts and only as simple ideas."

It was the lingering hunger for words to be written and placed onto paper in a way that I was only able to do the way I did it. I never took any drastic measures or disfigured my body because of this.

I found a way out, but it was short-lived and extremely dramatic. It was the one way I dreaded all my life. The very way I always said I would never want to leave this world.

"What was the one way to end this evil for others?" I sat down and wrote my own self out of existence, as though I had never been."