The blank page is an itch I must scratch.
The whiteness mocks me, saying you can’t fill me up with anything interesting to say.
And so I lunge blindly into writing, letting my fingers do what they have done for years, typing in a way that is alike to the furious scribbling of a madman at his headquarters of evil-doing.
My mind is an itch I cannot scratch.
The unfulfilled ideas claw and twist painfully in my head and I want to crack my skull open with my own hands if I must, if it is the only way to release this throbbing of ideas I cannot vomit out of my mouth. I could stick my fingers down my throat and attempt to drag them out of my heart, my head, but it would be no use, for the only thing that will be upchucked will be semi-digested food and nothing to do with the half-mad world that bustles deafeningly in the fringes of my consciousness.
I want to rip it out, but I cannot.
The sand catches in the middle of an hourglass, clogged and slowed by the tiny opening it must pass in order to go free-falling down to join the rest of itself. My knees lock and my arms ache dully, as everything has filled up within me to the point of bursting. Let me burst; let me turn into nothing but a splatter of words saying everything I thought, dreamt, fantasized of. Let all those words flow out of me and scream themselves to the world.
Let my soul take flight along with those meager little letters and release the pain within. Let my heart burst into a thousand million pieces and pump out the ideas and desires in the way it never could.
Let these maddening thoughts leave forever and leave me empty; nothing but a husk to float about in the wind.
I take a breath to scream, to shout my throat raw, but nothing comes. I merely take breaths and no sound comes out, my fingers wrapped about my throat, tight and restrictive. I itch to let the terrible and wonderful things out of me and into the world, but at the same time, I squeeze tighter to prevent them from escaping out me, as if I am afraid that I will be nothing without them.
Will I be able to rest when nothing remains?
Will I be able to sleep when I have clawed everything out of me with my crude, blunt nails?
Will I be able to face the day when all these dark thoughts have been vomited out?
Why can’t we ever go back to bed?
The whiteness mocks me, saying you can’t fill me up with anything interesting to say.
And so I lunge blindly into writing, letting my fingers do what they have done for years, typing in a way that is alike to the furious scribbling of a madman at his headquarters of evil-doing.
My mind is an itch I cannot scratch.
The unfulfilled ideas claw and twist painfully in my head and I want to crack my skull open with my own hands if I must, if it is the only way to release this throbbing of ideas I cannot vomit out of my mouth. I could stick my fingers down my throat and attempt to drag them out of my heart, my head, but it would be no use, for the only thing that will be upchucked will be semi-digested food and nothing to do with the half-mad world that bustles deafeningly in the fringes of my consciousness.
I want to rip it out, but I cannot.
The sand catches in the middle of an hourglass, clogged and slowed by the tiny opening it must pass in order to go free-falling down to join the rest of itself. My knees lock and my arms ache dully, as everything has filled up within me to the point of bursting. Let me burst; let me turn into nothing but a splatter of words saying everything I thought, dreamt, fantasized of. Let all those words flow out of me and scream themselves to the world.
Let my soul take flight along with those meager little letters and release the pain within. Let my heart burst into a thousand million pieces and pump out the ideas and desires in the way it never could.
Let these maddening thoughts leave forever and leave me empty; nothing but a husk to float about in the wind.
I take a breath to scream, to shout my throat raw, but nothing comes. I merely take breaths and no sound comes out, my fingers wrapped about my throat, tight and restrictive. I itch to let the terrible and wonderful things out of me and into the world, but at the same time, I squeeze tighter to prevent them from escaping out me, as if I am afraid that I will be nothing without them.
Will I be able to rest when nothing remains?
Will I be able to sleep when I have clawed everything out of me with my crude, blunt nails?
Will I be able to face the day when all these dark thoughts have been vomited out?
Why can’t we ever go back to bed?
