"PYRE" is the story of a writer, a one hit wonder if the popular press is to be believed, seeking the refuge of seclusion in the hopes of overcoming his writing block. Isolated in a remote cabin deep in the scenic mountain his mind begins to unravel as a slew of what could only be described as supernatural phenomena are unleashed upon his senses. Forced to question his very sanity and trapped by a snowstorm he is left with no other option but to face the persecuting demons head on and unearth a secret past he tried very hard to exorcize and forget.
There is a terror to life, a fear that comes from within and grips our very existence the moment we are birthed. The dark of the night is the womb of that fear, the place of its genesis, the fuel to its primordial flames. The interval of sunlight can never extinguish what the soul knows, what it feels, what it foresees. The gates of Hell are so terrible to behold...
Chris Wilson was driving for hours as in a trance, never stopping, never taking a breath, never taking his weary, bloodshot eyes away from the labyrinthine road ahead. His destination although lacking in mystery was fraught with danger just the same, sanity after all was nothing but a Pandora's box, a fragile construct which once challenged was liable to collapse like a house of cards. The winding road was taking him deeper and deeper into the dense forest, burying him into the abyssal heart of the mountain and away from life, his life...with every spin of the wheels his failings, his shortcomings and fears became less and less urgent, potent, suffocating...
Once they asked Hemingway what’s into writing.
His answer was rather simple. “Nothing” he said, “you just sit
in front of the typewriter and bleed”. Bleed...
What a peculiar choice of word...but the great man
was of course right, bleed it was...you simply had
to lose something in order to gain something else...
that was your soul, your agony, your secrets and fears
that went into every word destined to fill the blank page,
no matter how hard you tried and believe me you did try,
it was always the damn truth that won. In many ways
writing was a mirror, your own cursed reflection speaking
words into your ear, words that you wrote as part of an exorcism,
words that you did not want to hear, words that you hoped
lost all their hermetic power once the merciful ink snatched them
away from your hagridden thoughts.
It was a game of cat and mouse...writing was...
a damn game...one part of you hunted down meaning
and purpose in the annals of the lexicon while
another part of you - the deeper, darker part - sought the refuge
of a tormented confession...at the end it all came to the same story,
the same conclusion, the same journey’s end...
all writers long to be karmic Gods, to father worlds,
to birth galaxies and kiss blithering life into characters but at what price?
“Bleed” he said. Bleed...
...the winding road was far more than a path, far more than a hell-gate to perdition...it was a bridge to the land of the ebony moon...the mouth of madness...
“Silently we went round and round,
And through each hollow mind
The memory of dreadful things
Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And horror stalked before each man,
And terror crept behind.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Ballad Of Reading Gaol