The Essay of an Artist

 

In out, in out. I can hear every motion of my body as I breathe. The creaking of muscles echoes through my head with a distant thump from far below. I gulp and the sound of liquid being squeezed down my throat reminds me of delicate waterfalls on highland plateaus; the crackle of my eardrums like splashes on rock.

I have been reading and consuming such quantities of viscus theorems, that my head is humming with thoughts. Most of which are not my own, but which form in that home of my head, like a blossoming garden that has filled every corner of the greenhouse; flowers pressing up against the once clean glass. The pollen fills what little air there is left with a haze of sticky dust and a heady scent of philosophic ponderings.

The outside world seems to move without me. The motions of days passing me by as my brain tightens into ever entangled knots. Every word is added. The connections are limitless in the academic congestion for which I have no cure, except the end of this essay. The end of this one essay.

In out, in out. I feel my fingers flit across the keys as though they know what they are doing without me. But they hardly ever do. I spell and respell the same word a thousand times until it fits the ever-changing jigsaw. Although, there is always that one piece, that ‘there’ or ‘their’, which is it ‘here’ or ‘hear’? It is never found.

The writing is not impeding my process, in fact that is why I have come here, to this field of white where I can sow new seeds of thought. Where I can spew the contorted guts of frustration into a cohesive pattern. Where I can wind out the string. No. It is the very content of my dive into the abyss which haunts me. The curiosity of the unknown creatures of thought, which reached out to me and grasped at the very strings that now lie knotted and immovable.

It builds in me still. Letter after letter, word after word, the eagerness to break; to finally make. This syphoning off will not delay the collapse much longer. Yet I am nearly there, the last push to weave those words of intellect into new and irrational clothes of unquantifiable cognition.

In out, in out. Here I am. Breathe. A moment in time that is lost faster than it appears. Breathe. There is nothing but the ledge on which I stand, the fingers holding hands; grasping onto anything real, physical. Ground me with objects, surround me with them. Let the materiality engulf my senses and strip away the senseless singularity of thought. In out, and sigh. An eddie in the pool of my mind slows down and spirals lazily away, its momentum whisking it around a bend in my imagination, and it disappears.

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