MBT from 8-5-7

Sunday, August 05, 2007

4 A defiant peice of blank paper stares up from the desk. It's serene whiteness is a stark contrast to the symphony of noise raging inside my skull. The words elude me. Syntax strangles form while context obliterates emotion. Every sentence, every phrase, is critically flawed. No run of words moves smoothly. All of it is just garbled, clashing, broken noise that is limp on the page and vague in my mind. I sit wih my eyes closed while this storm rampages through my head like a defiant child, hurling everthing to the floor in a tangled mess. I pick through the wreckage like a beggar looking for cans and rags, praying to find something of value. There must be some image, some turn of phrase, I can offer her. Which of these words would make her heart race? What image would cover her with goose pimples? How can I put these loops and squiggles together to make her knees go weak? At the mere thought of her, my command of the language vanishes. These words, once such simple toys for me, defy my will at the thought of her smile. To imagine her touch is to be rendered a babbling fool, offering up a handful of mud for her approval. This, then, is the torment in which I reside. To be driven to create for her, only to have the result pale in comparison to her beauty.