finger painting
I'm spinning in swivel chairs for hours, blood rushing against the edge of my skull at breakneck speed threatening to burst out my ears like an ill placed fountain. Nystagmus hits hard similar to an alcoholic binge as my eyes try to focus again and again but my contacts are out and my glasses are lying over there on the desk well out of reach. I can't do this anymore, this pencil to paper, this fingers to keyboard, this thing that never was my bread and butter but better, brighter and brilliantly fun, an escape, an art form, an expression of what's inside splashed on an electronic canvass. Brain matter, splattered but sometimes painted with - always with dark, vibrant reds, usually in swirls that push out and return to themselves.
So much fear, but not enough of You. Righteous fear. Not this needling worry, this equivalent to "oh heavens be, I fear I left the coffee maker on." All else is swirling sand in comparison. Shall I give weight to it? May it never be!