Panic stricken


Writing has been a cover, a way for me to make my life mean something. When a story goes awry, I feel like I was punched in the stomach and there is nothing I can do at that moment to fix it.

Getting a voice, finding a voice, having that voice say something. Why does this voice have to really say anything other than, here I am, YOU HEAR ME!

I hate the time when I sit to write and I stare at the page and it stares back like a laughing doll in the corner, mocking me. I wait for it to jump out and strangle me like the toy clown in Poltergeist.

I feel the ripples of it running through me when I hear my soul crying for the pain to end. It doesn’t end, the clown creeps up behind me and grabs my neck, pulls me to the floor while I gasp for air. It is at that moment, when I’m gasping, I hear it again.

The small cymbals banging, the drums beating. I wait for it to stop and it keeps coming. Pushing me down and waiting for me to climb back in the chair to write some more of the filthy story that won’t let me write it.

The stoppage, that blockage, the uncontrollable urge to have my head taken to a shop and cleaned of the cobwebs, the blocking. I feel it skittering across the floor, a million spiders waiting to pounce on me and spin their webs in my head and stop the story again.

It is then I reach for the cleaner, the blue stuff, I drink it down and grab the bristle brush from the shelf. I push it through my ears until I feel a slight tug and know it’s through, I floss my brain for a minute…maybe two.

Then I look up and behind me my wife is staring at me, “What?”

“Nothing!”

But I let it go, because there is no use to prolong it. I have to get back to it. The demons make me do it. I see the ripples under my skin, their little tails gliding back and forth like a rat under water.

I wait for something. But I stare only at an empty page.

Bri

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