I can't even write anymore.
10 minutes near the 2 am finish line of sanity, my laptop glares dimly in the dark room; the sound of finger tips thud at the backlit keyboard, my breath heaves in the warmth of my broken air-conditioning - it is a tiring sight for eyes that should lull themselves to sleep.
My forehead starts to itch. Perhaps thought is brewing beneath my skull: passion riding wild in the nimble folds of my pink, squishy brain. I scratch until my skin is warm; until it is red, and sore.
The itch crawls down my back, but now I hold back the urge. I must write this piece - short, and erred as it is - I need my hands.
5 minutes to 2 am.
These minutes are crucial. It's the lift off I must tightly fasten my seat belts to. I am a passenger in this fortress of worry: I am sweaty palms clenched to my armrests; I am quivering feet, and the whispering of prayers beneath breaths; I am eyes shut tight, with loud engine revving and wheels tucked in, a black skyline grazes over.
Bare. I am mouth agape, trying to catch air back into my lungs.
Dry tongue, and chapped lips. This is a thirst not for water but for words.
I inhale. I push my newly trimmed fringe to the back of my ear, only to have it fall back to my face again. I let my eyes, damp from distress, stain my sockets, then wipe my nose.
3 minutes to 2 am.
The silent breaks, slicing through the throbbing air like a blade. In the secluded distance of neither space nor time - in an atmosphere without gravity: you hear a gun cock. Bullets loaded and the barrel swings.
I inhale. There is smoke, ash and debris. Black clouds gently find solitude on my taste buds, bitter with the pride of a massacre. My eyes pulse, but my screams cannot silence theirs.
I am sweaty palms clenched to armrests, quivering feet, and the whispers of prayers - of pleads - of begs.
God.
I simply cannot write anymore.
