In my younger and
more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over
in my mind ever since. He said I had a gift. He told me that a person can do
whatever they like when they write. He smiled when he told me, knowing that he’d just given me the secret to unlocking Pandora’s Box. I came to discover that he
was right. When I write, I can escape, cross over into some other world where
the boundaries of time and space don’t exist. If I wanted, I could build a trampoline
out of clouds and propel myself up into the night. I could even dance with the
stars. I could set with the sun and glow like the moon. I could make an invisible
key and unlock myself from any cage. I might even be able to fly without wings.
I can ride whales across an ocean that’s truly blue and I’d never have to hold
my breath. When I write, I can create a world all my own. My father told me I
could. He wouldn’t lie, not to me. I could be the founder of an alien colony on
Neptune who tries to make contact with Earth, or I could be the leader of a
herd of dragons. I can write and leave everything and everyone behind. It’s a
voyage I often take alone, although it is not necessary to be alone. I could
take any companion with me, even if they’ve been claimed by the grave centuries
ago. Even if they never existed at all. But I like to be alone. I can do
whatever it is I happen to please. But my world is starting to crumble. I can
feel it, like a poison just on the tip of my tongue. If I move or bend back,
the poison will slide down my throat. I can see elements of this place I’ve
created slipping into the cracks of places I didn’t build. I shouldn’t be
scared, but I am. I’m frightened. The whirlpool of a life that isn’t real is beginning
to engulf me. I can feel the darkness and light battling just under the surface
of the wind, their war invisible. Fire bubbles beneath the unbroken tread of
the waters, ready to emerge the moment my heartbeat flutters. I can’t even move
on solid ground now, the foundation shutters and falls away, and I am left with
gravity’s betrayal. My father would be ashamed. Now, I do the only thing I know
how to do. I write, I escape. And I know there will come a day, soon, where my
writing swallows me. When I escape forever, and am never allowed to return. I look forward to it. Then I went
back into the house and write, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the
windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
First off, I love how you talk about all the different things you can do when you write, especially how "I could set with the sun and glow like the moon." I definitely identify with the feeling of doing anything while writing. Yowza, that ending though! What a dark turn! There certainly is a fear for some writers about getting caught up in fiction and not the real world. You captured that very well, and I get the feeling the narrator was somewhat mad from your use of that ending line. I loved it!
ReplyDeleteI love this prose. I was fascinated by the descent from sanity to insanity through the idea of writing. Your simile, "I can feel it, like a poison just on the tip of my tongue" is great. Keep writing! You have a talent for it.
ReplyDeleteI love this prose. I was fascinated by the descent from sanity to insanity through the idea of writing. Your simile, "I can feel it, like a poison just on the tip of my tongue" is great. Keep writing! You have a talent for it.
ReplyDeleteYou connected these two lines just perfectly, Taylor! I can totally see how the line could become (insanely) blurred between reality and imagination as a writer. You describe that confusion well: "I can see elements of this place I’ve created slipping into the cracks of places I didn’t build. I shouldn’t be scared, but I am. I’m frightened. The whirlpool of a life that isn’t real is beginning to engulf me. I can feel the darkness and light battling just under the surface of the wind, their war invisible."
ReplyDelete