/lit/ - Literature

I find myself standing at the gates of my cemetery of ideas. I push open the hulking doors but I feel uneasy knowing I am entering empty handed again. I am greeted by a cruel flurry of wind to which I am familiar. Since my last visit I notice the gravestones have proliferated. A crimson grim reaper made of marble stands tall guarding eternally. Every coffin here is empty and that of a suicide. Is this not hell itself? I think to myself. This place does not belong to me alone, it has a history which cannot be measured, yet I wonder the cobbled path alone. I move towards a timid point of light- No I must correct myself I am merely attempting to escape this path of dejection in the same manner that a comet is knocked out of its trajectory.