The loud static and screaming have taken up residence inside my head again. Background radiation hiss and mummers of discontent, snippets of things that could have been, shouts of things that didn’t. Elongated shapes distort the sound with struggles to be set free. Pushing and pressing against a pharmacological wall. It has a taste of cigar smoke and grey ash, the feel of a chill worrying at your ankles, all moving about in the darkness behind eyelids closed, the scent of dreams gone sour when you wake up after a bad night and try to shake it off over a breakfast of snap, crackle and popping cereal. I can see snippets of a filmstrip off in the blue expanse, shuddering and stuttering though a bad home movie I am not in, but know the ending. I am too lazy and tired to try and tap into it, the invitation takes too much effort, the courtship too damaging, and the end result too pathetically predictable. Somewhere out where the wind starts blowing.

Mnemonic prattle and November rain, jutting conversations about things I don’t remember. I type and scribble badly, words and sentences limp across the white computer screen, burning ghost images into my retinas in the dark room. I try desperately to describe a smell of something between the goofer dust of T.S. Eliot and the smoking end of Ernest Hemingway's shotgun. Lies. I sit here fighting with the voice inside my head, to properly transfer the seemingly sensical wording from brain and heart to arm and paper. People call this writing. It can be loosely called cathartic, other days I call it Hell-it really depends on how much of what I really want to write pools in my elbow and refuses to leak out on the pristine, white page.

Pregnant, heavy humid air contaminated with living swirls and whorls of writhing smoke-a cross of disgusting and desirable. Push me Pull me ideas prancing and dancing, the wet heat starts to burn my fingers, cut with cool, clear water offsetting a rush of brain buzz and pharmacological stillness dark as the night skies.
Things to be, a future of constant struggles, human interaction confused with opinions (right or wrong) eating into the joy and light, leaving less behind than what was in the original plan, myopic dreams shot full of holes. I wish and want and get something close sometimes, but never a fully realized end product. Yin and Yang force a balance, no matter how painful. Dulled razors pressed into wanting flesh don’t leave permanent scars, but angry red marks that pulse to an internal tempo, ignorant of the direction. Less caring. More insistent. Staccato baton slashes from an upset director.
Shriek.
Mumble.
Quit.

Gangrenous mutters. Slipspeak chatter in a hushed room, squirrels chattering Morse code mysteries beneath the creaking trees and stuttering breeze-somewhere off around the corner-it’s almost a direct electrical connection to my nervous system soaking into my brain in harmony, even the cyclic syncopation feels right, just in a language I do not understand. Whispers of recognition filter thru the steady input, I almost get it, then a breeze disturbs the spunstrand and I lose it. If I could concentrate for more than 10 seconds on something, I’m sure I can break this down and solve the equation, it’s the extraneous noise that gets in the way, a constant crashing wave that jumbles up tidy order and scatters the bits all over the beach-I just need a quiet second to mull this over........................

I’m bored.

Face flushed with an uncontrollable rush of blood pressure, pupils pinprick contract in response. The city gates reinforced with escitalopram waiting for the inevitable push for a quick breach, if I close my eyes I can hear the forward pulse and crescendo swelling above all of the other internal noises; clicks and clacks and gurgles and itches, the machine moves on toward something and away from everything, in constant motion whether it be autonomic, or, of my own volition. Goosebump breeze fans up my arm and my scalp tingles in response, shimmering haze that moves to my earlobe and into the edges of my vision-a palpable physiological response to my mental state. Swinging in ever decreasing arcs, the pendulum moves toward stillness, inertial laws to behold and be-held.

Sprinkles do have a quicker uptake

But, they only come in certain dosages