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Bonfire of Insanity

Writer's picture: Justin H. BriggsJustin H. Briggs

And I cannot write right right now. I do not want to do so. I should not set my whole self to “dreams”, I should not hold fast to hope. There is enough fiction in the world for the end of it all, after


all, so fall in the negative lines. Take a number for the chance to express your negativity. File orderly through the turnstile until you reach the soap box of the many. We all have problems, right?


And as you approach The People’s Soap Box, you withdraw from your supplies the bottle of lighter fluid and cover the crate of craven despair with the bottle’s liquid lamentations. You strike a match and spark a blaze of the platform where we have all arrived to assess our aggravations. Burn this bitch to the ground!


And as the light of the flames dances across the grief-stricken objectors, you dance a jig of sorts around the bonfire of boredom. Get to work!, you cry, giving heed to the complainers, the doubters, the haters. Look up to the sky and celebrate every moment!


And the stars twinkle in response to the bickering fire arising from the eonic emotions of every person who once stood atop the soap box. Get the good! Seek the good! Hold fast your lover’s hand! Fix and help where you can! Save your energy for the tasks ahead! If you spend all your effort on the complaints of the day then you shall lose sight of tomorrow and forget the mere existence of yesterday!


And the onlookers, both those who have complained and those awaiting their number to be called, overtake your person and, using their collective, bare down upon your person and cast you screaming for sanity into the fire which you started.


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©2025 by Justin H. Briggs.

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