    I murder words for a living after mining them out of others. A serial killer who takes joy in snuffing out long lines of prose, decapitating adverbs to make them less than the whole, excavating large chunks of memory only to discard them by the wayside as they litter my mind’s pathways. I remove words like weeds, clearing away the space so it looks less jumbled, more cohesive, at least, that’s what I tell myself as the remains scatter into the wind, and I am left with so little words. I wonder if I cut too much, or I still have killing to do. Ah, who cares?! (I care he whispers to himself.)
Getting rid of those who don’t matter just like in real life, taking away their power before they can do damage. Chop, chop, chop, slicing as unevenly as when the vegetables are under my gaze, haphazard, some jagged, some too long, some halves cut but not equally, uneven, mushed out of shape, no longer resembling their original meaning, becoming part of a whole. That’s the mission, get it out, make me look good, but more likely make me look starved for attention, an attention whore who marks words for removal so he can matter. The hero, or a villain, it doesn’t matter as long as they see me. I matter! Murdering and mining away.
No feelings emerge as the keyboard highlights and cuts out of existence words that no longer perform, needed, are not remembered. Gone into the dustbin, never to be found, not worth saving, no legacy for them, not to be reused, just poof! Gone. Never to see the light of day anymore, along with the cliches, the poorly formed words, the typos, the grammatical errors, mistakes, even though standing along they could be something else, could illuminate, could mean something but no I have more murdering to do so I can keep mining, keep digging, keep taking them out so I can fill it with more crap, more nothing to says, more meanings that don’t mean anything, more, more, more! Let them die at my hands. Covered in their scent, I plug along, uncaring, unmoved, pushing them by the wayside to the path of clarity, but who am I kidding, maybe it’s just sowing more confusion, more scratching of the head by the reader, wondering what the hell am I talking about, but too late, the road to kill has already been paved.
Dear God, please let him stop stretching this analogy so thin that it swallows the whole.
    I don’t even offer the courtesy of saving the words elsewhere, banishing them into oblivion because they don’t complicate, don’t mean anything, like the ones in my past that are no longer in my mind, no longer occupying any space in my life. Yet I keep searching for others to steal from, to use, to copy, to burrow deep and look for more. Mining is the job, relentlessly, everywhere, no boundaries, no shame, just facts to use, put them to work until they don’t, or I get too lazy. Make them work for me, my slaves to do my bidding, no defense to my attacks. Asking questions, writing down the answers only to kill half or more of them. They don’t deserve to live. The decision made as soon as they put down or maybe not, later when perusing and before they were perfect, not superfluous not needed, used already, not worth it just like other treated me in the past. Some words think they are safe on the final draft, but weeks, months or even years later, excised! no! What did they do to deserve their fate, what did I do? Can’t make this about me. I get to continue murdering and mining!
    Gots to keep going. Search and destroy. Build. Tear down. Build again with less. It’s never ending, so why do it? What’s the point? Stopping seems easier. Why then do I want to be a murderer? Why mine? Silence from inside me. No words, fittingly. Somehow the compulsion remains to keep putting shit down, and then flushing it down. How many different ways can the same thing be said? It’s good to murder. Maybe do it now or it’s been done, you won’t ever know and that’s as it should be. You just take it in, fly by what’s on here, never dreaming of the carnage that took place. Desperation high to put something down, anything, and then delete it. Put. Put. Delete in one long swoop, and suddenly I am just back to the blinking cursor. The fucking thing just looks at me, daring me to do something original for God’s sake, but nothing comes for a while.
    Maybe I have nothing to say. I am a failure.
    Just play along. Nothing to see here. Read to be entertained, nothing else. It doesn’t matter how we got here. We are in this together. I kill at your pleasure, for your pleasure, for the greater good. I murder because I want to. I mine because I need to so I can continue the murder spree. On and on, it goes, that is the way the cookie crumbles. Shoot the cliché on sight, but that would mean extinguishing myself as I am a walking cliché. The wannabe writer, the wanting to be noticed person, the one who struggles each morning to find something to say.
    So this is what it has come down to. Close the finish, and still managed to say nothing. Just like my life, meaningless, or maybe meaningful, but you won’t know because I murdered my soul away. For you, dear reader. I did this for you. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I sharpen the blades of the keyboard, ready to slaughter in your honor, dear reader. You better show me some appreciation, turning into a murderer/miner for all that all elusive glory. The words, verbs, adjective laid to rest just so I can win your approval.