My hands flutter across the keys – a myriad of thoughts are tumbling about inside of my head. I keep trying to formulate them . . . to make sense of what my mind is trying to tell me. But when lucidity seems to hit, every thought seems to shatter and fall back into obscurity.
I’m not sure why this is. Perhaps, it’s just because I’m sick and my mind seems to working faster than my hands can keep up. Has this ever happened to you?
Mind you, I’ve been writing off and on today. Bits and pieces of things that I’ve been working and the occasional poetry that seems to spit out of me at a moment’s notice. Yet I still feel distracted. Like I’m not all here, even though I am.
In between all of this, I’ve been chatting up a storm with people on Twitter, MSN and Facebook. Somehow, it feels as if I’ve not been productive, even though I have been.
Hate these moments. I blame whatever sickness is invading my very depths for them. If I could, I’d take a match, drench this germ in heavy gasoline and slide it underneath whatever this is and watch it light up. Can you imagine what that would be like? I can. Envision the following:
A lonely, solitary form standing in the middle of nowhere; its mouth wide and grinning from ear to ear (if it has any). The road is empty and covered in a reddish-brown tint as the sun begins to set. It’s rubbing calloused hands together as it waits for me to fully succumb to its clutches. I walk into its line of sight, the fingers of my right hand wrapped around the handle of a rusted can of gasoline, a satisfied smirk playing about my lips.
‘Hey you!’ I say. ‘Missing something?’
It assesses me from head to toe – derision written across its pockmarked face. Disappointment flashes within its very eyes. ‘You’re supposed to be dying.’
Laughter breaks from within me. I don’t intend on letting it win. ‘You were wrong.’
‘Things have just begun. You’ll succumb soon, you’ll see.’
‘Not a chance in hell!’
Tossing the can at it, the liquid splashes onto its gray and scaling skin. A disembodied howl is ripped from its throat as it kicks the can away. It was obvious that it had expected to add me to its list of victims, but I refused to play its game. No, I still have some more time left in me. I’m not kicking the bucket yet.
Pulling a faded box of matches from my pocket, I light one and throw it in the germs direction. It catches fire, the scent of burning flesh mixed with rubber wafting into the air. The howls become louder as the flames engulf its tiny form as it writhes across the pavement. It’ll die soon, if hasn’t already.
Yea, I’m not out of the count. Not yet anyway.
::grins and winks::
I hope you enjoyed that little piece as much as I enjoyed writing it. Being sick may not be so bad, I guess. It’s given me just a little bit of inspiration. Which doesn’t happen often.