They come like a seizure, demanding attention and immediate execution and I am helpless to do nothing else. I set fingers to keyboard and write like one possessed.
Feverishly. Inanely determined to pour out the words that are dancing around in my head. Thinking up metaphors and discarding them almost simultaneously. A crowd waits to read this, I think, and adrenaline courses through my body, jitters from a high.
Sometimes the stories do not come.
The words are disjointed, limp noodles on a plate. They float around, kicking and splashing, almost teasing in their nonchalance. And then, I am harried.
What am I to say? What am I to do?
The words have gone where I cannot reach, and on days like this, my left foot shakes.
Sometimes, I hear the scornful laughter. It is loud in the silence. I see the disbelieving looks, the barely disguised thoughts that cannot support such delusions of grandeur.
The mockery echoes in my head loudly, and I begin to ask questions of myself. On and on and on, I go, questions piling, headaches rising and tears welling up.
And I ask myself, "who send you message?"
I often wonder at the things I dream about. Prizes, awards and econiums.
Interviews, bylines and quotes.
I dream so much and so often that the reality scares me.
And so I run. And I hide.
I retreat inwards, under a cool, bubbly, happy face.
And I shut my mouth when I should defend myself.
The End.
P.S. In the end, we will be fine.
Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels.
There's something about abstract art, don't you think?
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