Ink

There was always the urge to continue the writing, to add to the seemingly endless plot of my fictionalized existence. To slit my cerebral wrists and spill the ink onto the page relieved the daily stress of the physical reality. To write became a beautiful distraction. Not even the drugs could transplant me into a garden of thought such as what the ink does to me. I have to consume words and burn them into thoughts and write write write, everyday, I have to drink the ink so I can later regurgitate my own biological, single celled words and wipe them up with paper.

 

But of course my urge inevitably becomes satisfied, and I will not have to write for about a week at the most, and after a week of wading through a hazy dream state the words come back, they grow like mold in the aqueous membranes of my subconscious and I have to dig them out with a pencil and paint the words on the paper.

 

Burning the hours of the clock away with a match, smoking a pipe of ink dipped tobacco at my escritoire, facing my typewriter like an opponent. I thrust my fingers like daggers at the keys in hopes of breaking them or bashing my fingernails inward and puncturing a vein of ink until the paper is marked. I need to paint upon the canvas, I need to add color to the plot. I procure the mellow dream drugs.

 

   There is an obscure, hedonistic outlook in the core of the pill that is dissolving in my stomach, and the pleasure flows like a river through my tangled being. I chase the pill with a cut diamond glass filled with deep blue ink. The words bleed down my throat and settle in my blatter like water on sun drenched sod. Beautiful thoughts fizz to the scalp of my hairs and bounce around in my skull. I smile at the euphonious breeze that seeps around the trees like water and tides through the windows and into the house, where it walks around like a ghost. The words materialize before me like a prism of ink and float around the room in vague teasing motions, finally directing its attention to me and the typewriter.

 

A brief sensation of an old memory washes over me, and the memory digresses into a dream, and the dream a sentence, and I reach for the keys and crash upon them like waves of an ocean filled with thick, dark ink, and the keys tap in obligated accommodation to my raconteur fingers, and the words spill like water and ice and then the cut glass is dropped and the diamond glass shatters and cuts my fingers and I bleed and bleed and bleed the black ink, the mainline to my fiction is punctured and I spill my mind onto the paper and I can feel the pain leave me as I burden the paper with my pain and my wonder and my ink.

 

The wind rushes into the house and arouses me like a physical being, and I stand up alarmed, the chair falls at my feet, and I rush to the window and scream out into the dewy night, the frogs croak back in raspy burps, the air is warm yet it cannot be trusted. I feel the memory swell like a bruise in my head, it grows and pulses with a life, it frenzies with plot, and I remember that the memory is in fact a dream, I vomit the last of the words out into the moist grass below, a rabbit skitters and dashes away, smeared in ink.

 

Stomach satisfied, I grab the pile of words inked on the crumpled, yellowing paper and toss them like pigeons out the window.

Author's Note

6-21-14

Reviews

[Siva]

Really nice. i wrote something very different, but its funny how somethings matched. would love for you to give it a read. cheers. its called the writing on the wall.

[ZackOfBridge]

I thought I had commented but I guess not, the truth is that your words leave even my typing fingers speechless. This is like a therapeutic, literary slap into a writer's reality... whatever that means. Anyway, imagery, brilliant as always.

[Chadvonswan]

Thanks bro-maestro, always love to read your comments. If you need any more therapeutic slaps, just lemme know. Have you stared that story about the taxi and the ------- ?

[ZackOfBridge]

Yes I have, I just need to transcribe it to a digital format

[Chadvonswan]

Nice (: .................

[Jessica]

Gripping and very fitting imagery.
" To slit my cerebral wrists and spill the ink onto the page relieved the daily stress of the physical reality."-I can totally relate to this. Writing is an outlet.
Sometimes there is something in my head I just HAVE to get out on paper. Once its out, I'm better and the idea doesn't mean nearly as much to me. I'm guessing that's why he threw the paper out.
Nice job!

[Chadvonswan]

Truly appreciAte the commentary, Miss (:
Thanks for taking the time to reAd!

[S.J]

That was interesting. I must admit. It was pretty good.

[Chadvonswan]

Thanks for the comment, much appreciated!!

[Nusquam Esse]

I can, oddly enough, relate with this one. It often feels like it is something beyond us, something which will not be denied. You use excellent metaphors, and your word choice is impeccable; all in all, this reads poetically. I think the biggest flaw here is punctuation. There are numerous parts throughout this that need commas, semi-colons, and hyphens to flow properly, and to read with clarity. As it is, I had to reread several parts to make sure how the different parts related with each other. If you are going to use unconventional and creative syntax, exact punctuation is needed to help readers understand how it all 'flows'. That is the only real flaw I can see in this piece of prose; as always your voice is unique and powerful--you do what you do, very well.

[Chadvonswan]

Thank you for tAking the time to give me your review, very much appreciated. I understand exactly what you mean about the punctuational flaws, and I need to edit this one anyways, as I wrote it on my ipod haha. Thanks for the commentary !!