Back In The Driver Seat
Honeydew light invades the black pitch and I raise my hands to cover my eyes while choking back the urge to scream. My throat is so very dry it would probably have only come out as a horse, gurgling mess anyway. Best not frighten myself let alone anyone else in the vicinity.
The light bathing me like a bastard mother grows like a cancer until it's filled the little box I had called home from anywhere between two hours and two years. Weakly I try to stand only to fall over, catching myself with my hands to save my face, scraping my palms in the process. I end up crawling out on my hands and knees into the white, hot mess.
Outside of my prison I keep crawling until the ground beneath turns from rough cement into grassy softness. My vision still bleached whiteness seen through slits where the lids of my eyes try and save the round jelly transmitters within. By the time I finally recognize the world I'm surprised I have not gone completely insane.
I stand when I am able. I look down at myself. I'm wearing a loin cloth and my beard is a long bushy mess. I pray to some God whose name escapes me that there will not be too much white in it. If you are a normal person you would think it a beautiful day. The sky is aqua blue and I hear birds singing. I'm in a fenced in courtyard with a tall burgundy colored fence surrounding the perimeter. Past them I see large trees dancing with the slight breeze that creeps up my garment and tickles my balls.
It's like waking from a dream to your girlfriend playing with you. It gives me the first sensation of home in what may be forever.
I see where I need to be. I move towards the plywood table and aluminum chair that had been left for me. I take a seat and my buttocks fuse to warm aluminum comfort. In front of me are my tools. A Laptop with unfinished works saved on files I've neglected for far too long. To my right, next to the keyboard on the table, is a glass of rum doing the tango with some coke over ice.
I could use a shower and a shave. I could stand for some food to nourish the body and some delicious mind-altering sex to feed the soul. I could use these things but for now I need to write. It's my purpose and when I've been away from it for too long I become a ghost of who I'm supposed to be.
With hands that shake I begin tap, tap, tapping at the keys. Like a lover I'll treat my tales sweetly, roughly, teasingly, and transfer bits of me into them.
I'll always be that lunatic spilling his essence onto the page.
Good Christ it is good to be home.
(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2009
The light bathing me like a bastard mother grows like a cancer until it's filled the little box I had called home from anywhere between two hours and two years. Weakly I try to stand only to fall over, catching myself with my hands to save my face, scraping my palms in the process. I end up crawling out on my hands and knees into the white, hot mess.
Outside of my prison I keep crawling until the ground beneath turns from rough cement into grassy softness. My vision still bleached whiteness seen through slits where the lids of my eyes try and save the round jelly transmitters within. By the time I finally recognize the world I'm surprised I have not gone completely insane.
I stand when I am able. I look down at myself. I'm wearing a loin cloth and my beard is a long bushy mess. I pray to some God whose name escapes me that there will not be too much white in it. If you are a normal person you would think it a beautiful day. The sky is aqua blue and I hear birds singing. I'm in a fenced in courtyard with a tall burgundy colored fence surrounding the perimeter. Past them I see large trees dancing with the slight breeze that creeps up my garment and tickles my balls.
It's like waking from a dream to your girlfriend playing with you. It gives me the first sensation of home in what may be forever.
I see where I need to be. I move towards the plywood table and aluminum chair that had been left for me. I take a seat and my buttocks fuse to warm aluminum comfort. In front of me are my tools. A Laptop with unfinished works saved on files I've neglected for far too long. To my right, next to the keyboard on the table, is a glass of rum doing the tango with some coke over ice.
I could use a shower and a shave. I could stand for some food to nourish the body and some delicious mind-altering sex to feed the soul. I could use these things but for now I need to write. It's my purpose and when I've been away from it for too long I become a ghost of who I'm supposed to be.
With hands that shake I begin tap, tap, tapping at the keys. Like a lover I'll treat my tales sweetly, roughly, teasingly, and transfer bits of me into them.
I'll always be that lunatic spilling his essence onto the page.
Good Christ it is good to be home.
(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2009