I pace around the room, walking in circles, with my eyes wide open but not able to see,
as if conjuring my words from another dimension with a ritual dance -- the story I write as a gift from the gods.
I put pen to paper writing down the thoughts as they come pouring out of my mind, my hand too slow to keep up,
failing to capture the emotion and passion as it dissipates into the ink -- too far removed from its point of origin.
I struggle to hold onto that moment -- the flow of raw, focused energy, the ecstasy of non-stop creativity coursing through my body.
Always failing, as it slips between my fingers splashing onto my canvas; fractured into a million pieces of unsatisfying characters. I can almost see the tangibility.
I clean my work, as I sober from the chemical spill dumped on my brain, the words resembling more of an ejaculation than prophecy.
I transcribe from physical to virtual, losing the genuine expression accompanying the ritual that's left behind; the act more mechanical than spiritual.
My message sails into the virtual ether, getting caught in the digital wind -- much like praying, never knowing if your words are ever received,
but you keep speaking because believing they're not would defeat their purpose.
So, once again, I pace those circles, burning my path into the floorboards.
If you try and follow in my footsteps, you might think it’s short and easy, but you'll fail to see that circle wasn't walked once but a thousand times.