nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

Too much to do - ORIGINAL PROSE

There's too much to do and not enough time to do it all, there's too much to think and it all runs over one another, one after another like a stampede through my mind, as it seeps out and spills over through the uneven corners, as it leaks out and conveys itself as anxious ticks in my body, as the mind cannot contain all its worry in one small, simple, fragile frame. It means it infects others, that my very touch seems to inspire such visceral reactions in the ordinary man, as one might recoil at the sight of a thing so vile and grotesque that it is an inherently involuntary action, for he must always be on edge in the presence of such a thing, never allowing his guard to drop or his revulsion to fade, less he suffer the same fate as the soul to be pitied, tolerated in the way all disgusting things can be tolerated for a time, until we must back away from the scene altogether. Music plays in my head, layered and layered until it sounds like a chaotic symphony of melodies which clash and conflict one another, which only prove grating and irritating to the afflicted person. Music, sounds, voices from friend and stranger alike, as faces old and new come into view, unable to grasp reality as I struggle to determine what is real or illusion, as my dreams turn into vivid nightmares each and every night, as I toss and turn, as my days are full of anxiety and fear of the known and unknown, of what will come and what has already passed, as I push through my worries and swallow pill after pill in hopes it will aid me in my journey towards spiritual enlightenment, but what does it mean to be a writer when all the greats had died long before their time and their minds remained as they had been their whole lives: twisted, distorted, as dysfunctional as the day they were born, yet so capable of creating such masterpieces born of chaos and clutter, when all I can do is stand on my own and weep such pitiful tears over a blank page, as I stare out my window into the night, as ghosts linger just beyond the panel, urging me closer to the edge of a writer's madness? My masterpiece remains safe in my mind, yet my anxieties plague me so, as the thing of madness, of happiness and sorrow, of a certain kind of pain and beauty only writing can inspire, it all works as a collective feeling to compel my fingers to move, to raise pen to paper and write just as I had always wrote, to spill the contents of my heart upon the blank space and inspire others just as my heroes inspired me, to free myself from the constraints of pain and exhaustion, to cast my mind back to the young child who would create her own stories, as she desperately fought back against the tide of an ocean dangerous, unpredictable, tumultuous, as stories came to life in the midst of pandemonium, armed only with blank pages, coloured pencils and a stapler, recalling how the drive to be and for that to be enough always kept me going during such dark, dark, dark moments. There is too much to do, as chores build up within the four corners of my home, as my employer begins to demand more and more of my time and energy but, for her, I write these words, to inspire and never stop being.