A jaded mind
Lack of focus
A blurred existence
A dazed expression
A blank stare
A fast track
A frantic pace
A dizzying dream
Where to begin
When to quit
The pain, so incredible, drops me to the floor. I curl up in the fetal position, submitting to the sledgehammer pounding in my head. I close my eyes, to keep the sharp blades of light from entering in. I slowly pull a blanket over my head to hide in the darkness. I can’t go on this way.
I writhe in pain. It slithers through my nervous system, starting at my head, working its way through my body. I am helpless, powerless against the searing pain.
Lowering myself to the floor, I claw and drag myself across the room to the only chance of relief. My hands shake as I fumble the bottle and drop the lid. Unable to steady my nerves, I drop the bottle as pills scatter everywhere. I collect enough of them to swallow and collapse back on the floor.
There’s a place where the unconscious meets the conscious for a brief moment.
I drift from consciousness. Not completely. My mind soaring through purple clouds and a deep blue sky. I feel as though I’m on a trip through a psychedelic dimension. A brief period between asleep and awake, where the world is in a state of dissolution.
I’m experiencing a cognitive shift. I feel as though I’m watching myself in an alternate life.
This is madness, and yet, exhilarating!
Its like living in a cotton candy world where the trees are lollipops and the grass is a sea of green gum drops. A world where one can ride on the wings of butterflies and have in-depth conversations, with unicorns, about nothing, and everything in-between.
Delusional and loopy, I wander aimlessly on pink and purple clouds, where the sun is a burnt orange with brown spots dotting its surface. I stare at it aimlessly. It doesn’t blind me, rather it draws me into an endless melting vortex.
I’m high; flying through another dimension. The hallucinations are so real, I can reach out and almost touch them. The clouds look like darkly toasted marshmallows. I float across the ground, my feet barely touching. I have no awareness of where I am.
I look back to see where I’ve been, but only see a man, lying down, prostrate on the ground. He seems vaguely familiar. Oh well. It matters not. I’m in a world where my dreams are reality.
I slide further and further into this psychosis. The images and hallucinations before me begin to morph and bleed into blurred images.
Suddenly I awaken. My mind stabilizes and I’m aware of my surroundings again. I’m no longer lying on the floor. I find myself wandering through the grocery store. How did I get here?
The pain is gone. The hallucinations and alternate reality is a vague, distant memory.
Life’s doldrums, envelope my soul once again.
I … am numb.
A writer sits, hovered over his desk. He shuts out the doldrums of the world, puts away the distractions of a life less ordinary, and prepares to unload. His mind is an overflowing sea of thoughts and emotions ready to burst through a dam of obscurity.
In his right hand, he holds his pen, a companion tool. With it, he wields limitless power. He holds the ability to create and venture into endless worlds, travel across hundreds of galaxies, hold the universe in the palm of his hand, or turn any life of normalcy into an undiscovered adventure.
His left hand grasps his forehead, just below the hairline. His knuckles are white and disjointed as they press deep into the skin. The weight of his thoughts tug on his burdened soul.
His heart is heavy and the stage of his mind veiled in darkness. He withdraws into deep caverns, wracking his brain. His mind echoes with voices of pain and pleasure. His heart aches with the pangs of a thousand knives and, at the same time, floods with joy as beautiful as a mountain meadow draped in royal beauty.
In his mind, exists an untold story of adventure. Drenched with experience. Filled with personal tragedy and downtrodden hopes. One of dreams, not yet realized. With the happiest of endings.
And so he writes. His blood soaks the pages like blotches of ink. His heart and mind squeezes the story from his soul like a clothes wringer extracting every last drop of water through it’s rollers.
He breathes life into the story. With the placement of each character, the blank canvas comes to life. A magnificent story for the ages. It’s not just any story, though. It’s HIS story, HIS dream. HIS reality.
He writes for others. Not for praise. Not for the critic. He writes for the dreamer and the adventurer.
He writes, with the depths of his soul, so that others… might live.
*Read the continuation “A Writer’s Soul… continued“
A traveling man
A dreary highway
Surrounded by wasteland
Wrapped in sorrows
An obsolete world
Lives without purpose
A wandering race
A facade of grace
A shroud settles
A cloak of obscurity
A mirror of self deprecation
Staring him in the face
The figure within
Gestures in blatant mockery
Nowhere to run
No place to hide
On the side of the road
Standing, waiting, observing, longing