My legs twitch with the memory of running. The field of my dreams ahead, my feet mired in the mud of the mundane. Work, worry, house, finance.
I can’t sleep, instead, I turn to vodka, pouring a big glass from the freezer. The glass instantly cold, like my foreboding. Will I ever finish the race?
Ideas bubble inside like bad milk, fighting to come up, but I fight to keep them down, no time for foolishness. I must continue on.
The race just a distraction. Keeping me from finding solace. But solace is a narcotic, numbing the muse, turning her away.
I must give chase, leaving behind the mundane, tearing headlong into the brambles, naked and vulnerable. The beauty lies in the blood.
My legs twitch, one step, then another soon I’m headlong into the thorns, ripping the flesh, blood flowing beautiful lines. Lines of pain, written by my life.
© The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2013