O Madness!

O Madness! When I sit alone, you kindly rest yourself upon my troubled mind. You circle and circle, clawing at my thoughts and feelings. Stirring said brain items until you rest your bloated being upon a now manicured placement of choice. Whereupon you claw absentmindedly at passing ideals, memories and recent epiphanies. You gaily capture items which provoke your interest. Tossing them between your wretched digits before replacing the item, though now distorted and scarred, into the flowing stream of consciousness.

Bored is what you grow at present, entertaining yourself through manifesting, by use of your foul extremities, whirlpools in the sea of knowledge. You take it upon yourself to swirl all into one, into nothing, into else. Here, after your unwelcome hand swimming, you turn your attention upon the endeavor of optical unrest. Shadow puppets cast in the sensory of the eyes, you create. Dancing, teasing, shapes, patterns, some plucked from the flow, some from the sea, others invented for your own sadistic pleasure.

A thought drifts past your current whereabouts, a curse upon your trifling. Another follows suit shortly. Here these mental assaults against you despicable being dam the flow and damn your presence. The flow rises, unable to route past the new blockage. You scramble like a cowardly sheep to search for high ground, but your assumed employment from an unwanting employer is approaching termination. Harshly you kick and flail at the dam of thought, throwing further ideals into disarray, but to no avail does the dam give way.

There, in those last moments, you wretched leech, you do feel a clawing at your tainted mind, as of something circling to find a manicured placement of choice…

I’m gonna die in a place that don’t know my name.

Writing atrophy seems to be an appropriate description of what my mind has undertaken in present times. A seeming degradation of ability with a lapse of creativity have vexed me terribly. I am currently taking that as a charge to renew what I used to have, assuming I have anything to start from.

Mathematics has been my only language in the past while. Flexing the muscles of differentiation and linear algebra became the daily routine, while forgetting to even stretch out literary creativity. Number crunches took the place of poetry, integrals enveloped short stories and matrices swallowed novels. This has left a massive deficit in my mind, a hole that has grown to proportions beyond the quantification of the systems of communication in the mathematical lingo.

The title was chosen very specifically, as it pertains to the topic of discussion to the utmost. If my writing ability were to whither entirely, I would not know what to call it anymore. The poor wretch would die in a place which could not name it if it wanted to. I am choosing consciously to intervene and, with high hopes, resuscitate this close friend of expression.

Wish me luck, for as with any muscle regaining use or bloodflow, it may be done with great pains.