Have you ever lit a cigarette,
In the mind, or real,
Only to let it burn down to the butt, singeing the fingers – or synapses?
The same way farmers start controlled fires to generate new growth, I feel that burning, the scorch marks invisible, as I stand by, helpless, as pocket infernos char my mind, that no surgeon or brain scan can detect. Pouring petrol on the metaphysical fires they burn through; boiling blood, excoriating delicate membranes, until a hole appears at the apex of my skull, providing a chimney of smoke allowing heat-fused ideas to rise upwards in beautiful invisible wisps raising no alarms, just questions, as creativity stands by ready to stamp on the licks of flame eager to spread.
New thoughts, ideas and consequences arise, green shoots spearing through plots of black matter: a new story, a twist, a character, all rise from the seeds I never sowed, carbonated, light and juvenile, hostage to daily moods and vying for attention before they too burn for their own good, sometimes rescued by typing or a gripped pen scratching a pad, the only tattoo they’ll ever partake in: digital or other.
Boiling at the same temperature as water, blood blazes through the brain irrigating it with each convulsion of the aorta, searching through veins and capillaries, delivering the oxygen ideas need to survive, but some days those same tributaries sear upwards, bringing nothing but blue promise, bubbling with dissatisfaction creating only noise where once whispers reigned supreme, one at a time, talking of stories and novels, of future glory with British politeness waiting to be heard.
One morning, I yawned and shook the dreams away like a wet dog on a river bank, muscles realising the game was over until night-time. Looking down at my white pillow, I noticed scorch marks in the cotton trailing up the headboard and inexplicably I ran a hand over the top of my head, feeling only hair, and a relief I couldn’t place.
This is nice! Really lyrical in it’s cadence. And the end, “One morning, I yawned and shook the dreams away like a wet dog on a river bank, muscles realising the game was over until night-time. Looking down at my white pillow, I noticed scorch marks in the cotton trailing up the headboard and inexplicably I ran a hand over the top of my head, feeling only hair, and a relief I couldn’t place.” That whole part was a nice pay-off! Thanks for posting.
Much appreciated Malakhai. It was a little different to what I usually write.
Like Lonely Author, I wasn’t sure where you were headed with this, but like how it ended. Glad you kept your mane, Lion. 🙂
Thanks Mary. 🙂
The story wound up somewhere, not sure how or why lol
Some of the best stories just goes with the flow….it has its own path to take.
Good work. Wasn’t sure where you were foinf with this. Well done.
Neither was I lol. Cheers 🙂
foinf??? – what a freaking typo. I hate writing with my phone. Nice write.
lol. Thanks a lot lonelyauthor, I’ll be over to your blog in a mo.
Well, that was rather magical.
Loved it.
🙂
Many thanks babbitman 🙂 No idea where it came from..
The most surrealism of stories and ideas of the flames inspiring us to infuse out and pour onto paper.
Brilliant my friend. 🙂
Cheers mon amie. 🙂
🙂 🙂
I loved this. It was like I felt the fire around me. I could feel the heat. Yet, it’s all metaphorical. Seriously brilliant.
Many thanks Jade 🙂
I riffed off the opening lines that I’d written an pd that’s what came out.
Good story. Similar to one I wrote recently. Check it out if you’re interested. ‘Dreams don’t come to admin monkeys.’
Thank you.
Your story had a nice parallel thanks for directing me to your piece.