Passion that sticks below the surface, reaching for the air that it
sees, begging and whining and scratching while a small but stable white
picket fence holds it beneath the rivers of the brain. It's a maze, a
winding cavern, endless and as round as anything tangible. In the core,
there is a ticking clock that knows not time, but human nature. There is a
little eye that has never seen even the smallest flower, but knows how to
find any shape in clouds, any poem in a blade of grass.
And somewhere deeper still, in a dark little house in the winding
cave of this place, a little black pen is always scribbling onto a piece of
pape that will crumple itself in seconds if it is not cared for by a pair
of hands that are often forced to ignore it.
There is sometimes a breeze that carries no air, but pushes words in
a language unheard by human ears. Those words frighten and alarm the senses
and hurry the pen to move, to write, to throw itself to paper like suicide.
The eye closes somewhere, and the blood rivers push at the picket
fence, begging for air and relief while gaining none. Thoughts reach from
an endless sky, and the hands that so often struggle to sort begin to pick
the tattered words from the ground like wilting flowers. They save what
they can, sometimes lifting wonderful thoughts as they die and rot and
dissolve just like that. And amidst this there lies no warning, no
occupants. Somewhere a music note from the outside world slips inside a
blood river, helping to shove away the offending fence that stops oncoming
passion. A place designed to destroy, rescue, and destroy itself. The
rubble of a writer's mind.