Stop. Drop everything you are doing. Take your open palms off your eyes. Remove your jacket and listen. Listen to yourself. Listen closer. Focus. Release the idea of throwing your burning fists against the white table in front of you. Let loose your thickest thoughts , as loose as dry sand. Let them roll into the winds in every which way, like ten billion multicolored ribbons from your mind physically streaming into the sky. The sky is a flaky, fragile, unreal boundary easily shattered with one swift blow. Writing may produce drivel and when shared, people may turn to onslaught, searching to strike you down. They may dislodge you with tortuous lashes while they chant hymns for the damned. Yet, do not arrest. Acceptance by their mistaken minds is not and cannot be the driving force. It is passion that drives the soul to practice the art of penciling in the page.
Words can be used to pry open micro and macro Multiverses to infinite stretches. Teeming with farms of DNA, exploding elves, talking towering trees, satisfied tigers, whistling arrowheads, titanic mountain ranges sitting to your left, rooms colored golden with water pipes, blue ropes, exotic Indian spices, decorative tea jars, richly colored rugs, yellow tented sand dunes, an atmosphere so clear you can peer for hundreds of miles. The mind contains enchanted forests with thin branched trees, arched doorways leading to satanic preying grounds, forest floors of purple flower bells and families of peacefully piglets pleasantly pacing along – in a militant ques, searching out their next meal of acorns.
This process, which I know subjectively well, may change minds with fixed perceptions and its effects are sometimes chilling. My eyes lead my head left and right, dragging by my tall limp lanky body in circles. I cry dumb and deaf. A hook drags me around around around, I spin, I spin, I spin. I am addicted to the cause that finishes my body flaccid. The pain involved puts such strain on my soul it causes me to regurgitate tainted darkness, which tastes like disgusting tar – so horrid. The mucky haze engulfs one tree, one house, one road sign at a time. It is airy spit infused with frilling moths, a million flies, darting paper wasps and has a droning whine that sends back skin to defend. Writing, maliciously haunts my soul. It rips my mandible from my skull. But in truth, this pleasant process is additive.
