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The music from the Air Supply cd is stirring the air around me, I usually work in silence
but the muse has her mind set on some beats to keep up with the keystrokes. There's something
to be said about muses; you don't get in their way when they are on a plow or you'll end
up empty handed.
As my fingertips chase words around, my mind departs to find myself in a sand box.
someone has propped me there, stage left, stage right, trying to find the right angle
for me to look my best. The cameraman sings his praises the way soft breezes tease grass
blades in the summer. He doesn't seem to notice the sweat dripping down his own sideburns,
but I do, and I wonder if I could paint each drop of the liquid and make it look so real
that it would compel some lips to kiss it away.
::tap tap tap:: My nails clicking on the keyboard, sounds like ancient drumbeats
with purpose, perhaps to drown out the virgin's fear before she is thrown into a volcano
as a sacrifice to a god. My imagination is wreaking havoc, trying to conjure up stories
that have never been told, or played out. I have never been as happy as I am now.
My articulated feelings are in bliss. My insanity waxing and waning simply to amuse me,
even though it sometimes leaves me emotionally scattered, but I really don't care, for
I always know I am far from being contaminated. Traumatized? Hmm... Nah...
© 5/12/02
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