The Novelist

There are puncture wounds in the middle of his arms that elicit questions regarding drug use. He almost wishes it was that tragic, but they only drew his blood because he needed a physical. He's at that point where reflection and action find themselves to be awkward bed mates. One is always looking one way, while the other is looking down a short road. On recent trips he's reminded of that time when there was a wolf in his veins. When his fangs were killer. Razor sharp. They tore rips in the fabric of the universe. They bit through the most durable of hide and disarmed any obstacle that stood in his way. Now they find themselves dulled, and the wolf lies lazily in the sun, unable to find the top speed in a stride that used to bring down the most formidable of prey.

Twice divorced. In love once. He washes the wine out of the coffee cup that he drank the night before. And he washes the coffee out to make room for the wine in the evening when he sits and thinks. He finds his art to be quite like a hair cut. He cuts off the excess only to find it growing back. In fact, there's been times when he's wished it would stop growing and he'd find other things to fill the mass that grows from his head. He prays that the thoughts stop appearing and that a bloodlust for material, or women, or hobbies would take it's place. That would be manageable. That would be copacetic. That would be structure. It would be a sterile environment instead of the bloody volcano of ash that spews in a fit of chaos out of the top of the summit; raining down and covering everything in sight, making it hard to find your bearings. He's lost his faith over and over again, only to find it waiting patiently around the corner each and every time. He's sentimental, and it bodes well for him.

He types by looking at the keyboard; never the screen. He never learned much about the particulars of typing, but then again, he never learned much about the particulars of so many things that beckon those unlike him. Business, money, pride, conceit, television, cars, greed. He missed out on several of these things, and he feels it to be to his detriment. But he is a machine. He's a machine of memory and recall. And he's a machine of words. He can paint with ten fingers and no brush. His canvas is a blank page, and his reward is tangible. It sits in front of him to be reviewed and analyzed, examined and critiqued. It's his. He made it. He did it. It was owned by nobody but him. He thinks. He thinks. He thinks. He thinks. He thinks. He thinks.

He thinks about self-awareness and what that means. He watches the sun rise and what that means. He watches people chasing people and what that means. He runs and he runs. He appreciates good advice and what it means. When he finds himself listless he finds ways to escape it; shedding all that drags him down. He's an escapist of sorts.

He's held jobs. He's ditched jobs. He's held women. He's ditched women. He's seen the heights of certain hills, and seen the depths of a few valleys. So he chooses his direction of travel carefully. His body grows old, but his mind won't let him lose any edge. He has a difficult time making the two connect on an operative level.

Drugs don't help. They excite, but they only delay or further the confusion. He wonders what the hell he's doing. When ideas race, he writes them down. Napkins, mirrors...he leaves himself voicemails. He finds that it's easy to be aware of inspiration, it's easy to be inspired; almost a natural instinct to him. But funneling that inspiration is a violent process.

Sure, he's thought about checking out, but that's not his way. It doesn't fit...in any way. He doesn't want to be remembered as "tortured," because he certainly wasn't.

He just feels too much.