Sometimes in the middle of a run, my head fills with thoughts that beat the absolute fuck out of my brain. If I let the spill go too long, it can send me into a spiral, so I encapsulate. Crazily. Here’s what I sketched inside my run yesterday whilst I was freezing my nipples off. It’s almost verbatim to the original dictation from the voices in my head.
Memories are a sound, a hue, a scent that whims its way through my head in a spiral. This one an ethereal portrait whose smile is a beautiful deceit. This smile, it shows up at my doorstep as wolves to a witching hour feast. And this smile, this beautifully vicious thing, took me under. It sublimed my reasoning and scoundreled my cool veneer and repurposed the acquisition of night and hunger and love and pain and forever. It menaced my sleep and ravaged my waking moments. A purring smile, full of dangers and bright shiny hunger whose manifest was delivered from the embrace of a spiteful moon’s rampage on the deep, blue mysteries.
I had to exhale after thinking that shit up. And then I had to quit thinking, because to keep thinking would have sent me into an anxiety attack. Short bursts of something like this are plenty fine, but any more than that? Without benefit of a vehicle with which to shepherd the words? No bueno. Maybe it’s the OCD, maybe it’s an irrational fear of losing those thoughts and maybe I’m really a writer after all. Needy and manic, insecure and submissive to the stimuli of every single thing.
All things considered, I sometimes wish I could do heavy drugs because I am curious as to what it might produce in words, not to mention social entanglements. Shit if that wouldn’t be a trip.
And speaking of trips, I made zero concrete resolutions for the New Year, as per usual. To me, each new year is a bribe; a tenuous offering. I respect it for the brand spanking new feeling it gives me, I recognize it as a gift, because it really is. A new year is a brand new collection of days delivered to us in the freshly painted spiff of an image whose aperture is a righteous smack of promises kept.
Who am I to harsh that kind of newborn mellow with resolutions that are nothing more than a glorified last will and testament of the previous year? I would much rather drive hard on the same tank of fuel- where creative writing and storytelling became a habit. The engine is already revving hot on my running regimen, my martial arts exercises and my workouts. My meditative siestas are paying me on the regular with dividend checks.
I’m grateful for the days spent, I’m hopeful for the ones yet to come. I accept the bribe this year is pushing across the table, and I plan on spending it wisely. I realize it’s not the best deal I’m gonna get and that’s alright.
It’s the only one I’m ever gonna need.