A Sample of My Writing

This is the kind of writing that I really love to do, and I'm increasingly convinced it's the kind of writing people are uninterested in reading. If I had to describe it I would say it was Victor Hugo smoking hash. I'd really love to hear you opinion of it:

     A knock upon the door of the man the entire neighborhood knew only as Ashavan awoke the old man from a long bout of contemplation that had been taking place over a book resting open on his table. At some point the conversation he had been having with the writings of an ancient writer had abandoned the book’s pages and taken up residence within his mind. So frozen had he been that it almost appeared he had found some spot outside the stream of time.

     Such places exist among the endless abodes of every major city, places that seem to be sanctuaries from the present, immune to the hustle and bustle, the sound and fury that in the end change nothing. Like long unopened books sitting upon dusty shelves, there exist people filled with knowledge that has somehow been saved from extinction. But buried as they are by time, there abides in them yet a seed awaiting the proper condition for germination. There is some process that occurs in dormancy, some subtle shifting of the fabric of reality that science has yet to discover. From such forgotten places as these occasionally springs, in some unseen future, a gigantic oak whose day has come.

     He had been on the verge of something, some subtle thought that he could sense was true, profound. It was a butterfly that fluttered towards a deeper understanding, a new way of perceiving the world. He had experienced it often enough in his life, this briefest glimpse of something at the edge of consciousness. He had experienced it enough to realize that this was how all great discoveries began, like discovering the first thin tendril of a vein of gold that awaited mining. To be dragged away at such a moment was being awoken from a very pleasant dream. But as much as one tries, one can only stay so long in the world of reverie before returning to the far more unpleasant world that the collective mind had so far been able to cobble together.

     Annoyed as he was by the interruption of someone at his door, he managed to realize there was some connection that existed between what he was reading and the person who stood outside. There was, after all, some purpose to his long searches into the past. Flowers would someday bloom from the roots he followed downwards towards nourishment. Such a flower perhaps now awaited him.