Troubled/Transfixed

Where do I disappear to, when I stop creating?

Inert. Inept. Inconsequential and inconsolable.

I know I will be with her soon, I feel a withering inside. A withdrawal from the actual. An inward turning, accepting that I am finite. That, perhaps, I did not survive the whirlwind physically unscathed. Yet they find no marks on my inner parts, no tracks or tracing of the substances that erased me for so long.

A flare, they see, a tiny one on a parietal lobe of my intact brain. A brain that holds the me that is not intact, in fact.

But rather attacked, now in hiding…

It’s actually more comfortable in here. The pain never lessens, in it’s trek across the miles of my nervous system, nor does it miss a millimeter of bone and sinew. A flow of acid lava, burning- forever burning as it winds from joint to joint: knuckle to wrist, ankle to tibia, sacrum to facet…then bounding up each vertebra, it flows thru my frame in fiery rivulets. Bolts of white-hot lightning like razor-tipped arrows shoot out to all outposts; Shoulders to hands, elbows to hips, knees to burning feet.

Oh yes, I am still alive. But the living has begun consuming the will, digesting the drive, devouring the effort.

Leaving me on bed, on couch, on drugs, while dinner burns alongside my future stardom.

Funnily, I am ok with that. Meals I greedily prepare loose luster on my disappointed tongue. My mental monuments stare at me, unfinished and armless while I gaze through them to a universe only I can see…