Take a drink

Start at point A. Always stay within the lines. Walk only when the sign indicates. End where your point turns into a curve. That is the only way you will fill the whole page, or end up with a paper cut on your forearm. Caked in the filth of a day, rest humbly until it attacks. It may take seconds, even hours, but it will find you. It’s a primal urge. The sole desire to show the world around you what it is like to have looked into the eyes of death and seen what waits on the other side of the light. To expose what everyone else is trying to hide. To justify life…take a drink…Why else would cavemen write on rocks? To signal the high master that the ice has thawed? Or was it more of a joke, the punch line lost through the generations? The pain will soon subside. The slight taste of stale breath coming out with every motion. A thick white paste coating your tongue, making it difficult to talk. Making it difficult to think…take another drink…Total silence will never accomplish anything. You must have something to draw on when your mind hits the ground after leaping from the 56th story window. Wind rushing across the page, falling passed the offices of the power elite. Business men watching your decent with inquisitive eyes. Some of them wishing they could follow. This is where the words blur into smears of a four-leafed clover…take another drink…Vivid images race through your mind as you paint the page. The faint blue college-ruled lines screaming out to you. Praying that you give them meaning. Hoping that their existence isn’t for nothing. You no longer can see the lines, paper or pen. You see a life unreal and foreign to your own. Upon opening the doors a jungle of exotic plants is revealed. Just beyond the foliage a staircase is rising up into the falling clouds. Crossing and zagging with haphazard ease…take a drink…There is a man and woman, both standing post at the base, both looking at you. The words past flooding the ground beneath you. Soaking through the broken soles of your shoes. This is where the power lies. An overflowing mass of energy. They say that the neutron bomb is power, wait till they can harness the human thought. Contain it in it’s entirety for exhibition in the Smithsonian. Charging twenty bucks a head to see the one thing in life that deserves to remain pure. That will be the day I die – probably a motorcycle accident, lying on the third runway. As the police speed away, acting like he never saw me. The fiery sun setting down to rest on the eastern horizon, casting its essence across the foul scene of my creation. A faint smell invades my nose. Then I remember soaking my clothes in kerosene…take another drink