Writing Out the Storm

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.  ~Ray Bradbury

Every once in a while I tiptoe down the halls of my mind and pause before the closed door of prolificity, where rotting poems and decaying narratives lie naked and forgotten.  A darkened room where creativity once flourished in the fertility of Free Time.

Sometimes I actually touch the cold handle, daring myself to turn it clockwise. By the time I get up the nerve, the tiny morsel of oppurtunity has passed and the pulse of an idea begins to whither. Eventually it slithers beneath the door to join the others.

It's 5:53 A.M. I woke to the dog licking my foot, let her outside, and in my foggy state accidentally opened the wrong door on my way back to bed. Now here I stand among the putrified remains of a story, wondering if I still own the gift of words or if it has been taken from me due to neglect. I'm nervous and afraid--discomfited by my own derelict. I want to run.

As I back toward the door I stumble and land ass-first in the Hundred Dollar Chair. An unseen hand--my own, I think--sets a raspberry latte on the side table. The keyboard lands in my lap, and my sleepy fingers find home. One by one, the first couple words choke and sputter, resurrected from the tombs of tragic sacrifice. Light finds its way into the room as I lift first one, then the other hand. I take a deep breath and push.

Every once in a while I tiptoe down the halls...

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