You ever get that itch? When you see something, or think of something or read something, and you have all this rising in you, and engulfing you and you absolutely have to make something of it? A painting, or a story or sometimes even just a few pretty sentences. And then you sit and bask in their glory and soak it all in until you’re tired of it and it loses all meaning.
It doesn’t matter if it means you have to sit and stare at a computer screen in the near dark with a head-splitting migraine—you just absolutely have to do because you are incapable of peace until it’s out of your system. You don’t even have a proper story in mind; you just have to write something. It might seem like absolute trash to you a few hours later, but it brings you temporary peace. Complete and utter peace like you’ve never known before and will never know again in the future. It is completely yours for a few hours, until life settles back in and you busy yourself with the mundane. It’s like that tiny gust of cool wind lost amongst the warm air billowing around you on a hot, windy day. It could’ve almost gone unnoticed, but it doesn’t because it is what you focus on; you close your eyes and savour that tiny gust. That tiny, almost insignificant mass of moving particles with a slightly lower temperature brings you peace. It is your escape from the normal, and it brings you peace.
We all need an exit door from time to time. Most of us think of the day that it’ll all be over: when you can finally make enough money to buy your own house, or the day you find a job in a new area so you can move away or the day you get accepted into a prestigious college and begin the first day of the rest of your great, glorious, relevant life. We look to the future because it is our tiny gust; our only reprieve from the hot, windy day that is the present. Our life right now, is the present. And even though re-gifting is terribly rude, it’s a present we can’t wait to give to someone else, so we can get another one. One more like the train set you had in mind for your birthday instead of the pair of socks you actually got. Everybody needs socks, sure. But we want a train set. A glorious, humungous, smoke billowing, fully functional choo-choo train that’ll take us far away to some exotic land where you never get old or fat or tired or poor. Where life is a breeze.
I have absolutely no idea where I’m going with this. I think that ‘where life is a breeze’ part was me about to return to the cool gust metaphor, but I don’t know how to. The head-splitting migraine mentioned above wasn’t a hypothetical situation; my head feels like millions of tiny, blunt nails are slowly drilling into my skull and moving on to my cheekbones, so whatever has been written has been written on auto-pilot and because of that itch. Normally, I would try to make a proper, insightful post out of it (or try to anyway) but, like I said, tiny nails are out on a mission inside my brain and I can’t think. Well, not the coherent type anyway (though come to think of it, coherent thinking isn’t really my style even if I am in full control of my senses). The above paragraph seems to be chock-full of metaphors that my mind can’t make any sense of right now upon re-reading, so I apologize if I’ve reached new and terrifyingly high levels of suckyness. I just realized I wrote suckyness. My brain can’t even come up with a proper word. And normally, I would just go off to sleep, but the itch. It won’t let me be!
Out you demons! Out, I command you!…. Shouting in my head at my own head seems to make my headache worse…so I’m just going to mellow down and avoid exclamation marks for the time being…My desk is so cool…I’m just going to lay my head against the cool wood for a while…
…nope. Bending my neck hurts.
I’m sorry about all this. Auto-pilot. I have no filter right now. And I should be sleeping but I’m in the mood for adventure. I’ve never had adventure. I think that’s why I’m always restless. You can’t grow up reading Enid Blyton and Philip Pullman and Jacqueline Wilson and Ruskin Bond without blindly, completely believing that your own life will turn out like one of the characters. Why haven’t my friends and I opened our own crime-solving agency? Why haven’t I come across a lost twin or a dwarf or something. Why am I not secretly a ballerina who just doesn’t know of her talents but will involuntary break out in into a graceful and touching piece upon coming across a talking monkey? Why must life be so ordinary? And why, oh why must I be the one to suffer through this headache at this hour and still have a brain that flat-out refuses to just…shut down, and be quiet and peaceful and sleepy. I really want to be bald right now. My hair is weighing my scalp down and that doesn’t help any with the headache. I have heavy hair. And who even needs hair? What purpose does it have? For animals, since its thick fur, it provides insulation, but what biological use do we have of it?
Speaking of unnecessary things, I don’t even know why I’m going into such detail about my headache. I can’t seem to shut up about it. I swear I’m not doing it on purpose…like I said, I’m restless. My brain flits from one thing to the next and right now my digits are typing out whatever is going through my brain. #nofilter. #wokeuplikethis.
That’s the downside to reading a lot as a kid. You can’t ever have a peaceful brain. It is temporarily satisfied as you sit and experience the same thrills and fear and sorrow and joy as the character, but as soon as you’re done, and look up from the book and come back to your life, you’re so incredibly sorry that the story is over because that was it. And you must now look for your next fix. Books make an addict of you. You read so many grand sentences you just have to make/read more. You need the high…
…and now I’m talking like a deranged drug addict trying to lure you into the dark side. Or the Dork Side, amiright? (Hardy har har.) But drug-addiction is no joke. Kids don’t do drugs. Unless by drugs you mean books or coffee. Because there is absolutely no way you can get through your life without books and coffee. Oh yeah, I know what you’re thinking. You think Life is going to be great, you think you’re going to have a life worth writing about. Well, I am one of you. I started the previous sentence with the intention of breaking your bubble, but I don’t want mine to be broken and I hardly think your cocoon of rainbow coloured glass is any of my business. Also headache. I am in no condition to be doling out life advice. So continue on with your beliefs. Maybe Life will be great. Headache.
Am I making any sense? I know this post started out as something else…I was supposed to say something…something touching and beautiful. Oh well.
Ahhh wait…there it is…my brain’s quiet now. (Sigh) I don’t want to wake it up—Oh dear lord I’m even typing super slow right now so the activity doesn’t stir it up (I have some serious issues.)—so I’m going to go lie down and sleep.
P.S I apologize for the use of hash-tags. You should know I’m not one of those young ‘uns who follow these nonsensical trends. #trailblazer. Damn you headache! I swear I never use hashtagsepleasedon’thateme.
P.P.S I know all the whining about the headache made me seem like a baby–but it’s a continuous migraine I’ve had for two days and you don’tr really care so I don’t know why I added the P.P.S or even the P.S okay sorry I’m going to go now and you can continue on with your headache-free wonderful lives and I’m not even using any punctuation right now oh god somebody stop me okay byeeee. Wait, should I click on the publish button or shouldn’t I I don’t know if I’ve let on exactly how big of a basket-case I am before on this blog and I don’t know if you’re ready for it are you ready for it are you ready for the punctuation-less ramblings of a rambling fool who cant stop the word rambling from being repeated over and over in her head right now and so is writing rambling a whole lotta times on here why no punctuations whyyyyyyyy okay byeeeee.