Thursday, January 21, 2016

Scalpelastic


    You are driven.

    You are a fiend.

    You are a writer


    You exclude everything in your world apart from butting proverbially in “the seat” and hacking fictional adventures from the cliff face of your keyboard with an imagination blunt and bold as a cloud.

    You do not eat, you do not breathe, you do not engage in unnecessary peristalsis.

    You are oblivious to the world and her machinations other than that they provide you with an interface for the delivery of your fiction, along with the occasional glimpse of a sparrow or hang glider or cat or blur of fence and lawn through the momentarily evident distractosphere you believe is called a window.

    You do not know who the latest hit boy bands are, and haven’t done so since 1677.

    You are a shaggy, unwashed monolith of permanently flexed shoulder muscles, feeding off photosynthetic organisms growing on your nostril hairs.

    You will never be abducted by aliens or have sex with members of your own species.

    You will die writing, and carry on hacking out page after inspired page long after other humans would have perished, like you were a wasp buzzing crazily round the room after being swatted, or a chicken running round the yard with its head cut off, or a jet that flies into a mountain after the pilot has choked on a bag of peanuts.


    You are a fool.

    You are a fool.

    You are a fool.

    You are a fool.

    You are a fool.

   
    Stop for a moment.  Take in the air.  Drink something other than your own frothy saliva.

    Chill out.  Brave a salad sandwich.  Masturbate.

    You are in danger of becoming more swivel-eyed and self-obsessed than a money market guy juggling 257 mobile phones with 763 overhead monitors spitting dollarbabble.

    Get the erectus out of your rictus, and scoot round a park in your hot pants.

    Procure and style a bear.

    Feel the whoosh of tree bark against your bared stomach as you jiggle subtly.

    There is more to life than swinging from loop of g to dot of i like some thrusting parcour enthusiast of the blank page.

    There is Boy George, atom bombs, a hundred different types of glue!

    Bagels, duvets, unnatural looking breeds of dog reminiscent of undersea shrimps!

    Toilet paper inscribed with hieroglyphs, peculiarly shaped bananas!


    All the stuff you used to enjoy so much before you encased your brain in the poly-layered limescale husk of drilled-down, wordcount-obsessed, writophilia.

    So, c’mon — take a break, willya? 





2 comments:

fairyhedgehog said...

This is why I will never be a writer.

But keep your butt in that seat! Posterity will thank you!

Whirlochre said...

I am buttocking out.

Hell, I am buttocking out of my pants.