radiation prose

Do you understand this need to create? This need to respond through the act of creating a response that is more than just ourselves? A need that makes our anger boil when our computer doesn’t boot up fast enough (and so we grab a pen and start scribbling on the underside of the cat-food box next to the desk) or annoyed at the strangers on the steps outside, smoking during a break from their law classes, interrupting the voices in your head saying “Write this. Write now. You are overflowing.”

The words boil up through the eyes. You can feel it radiating from your brain like Superman’s X-ray vision, but it does not improve clarity. It is more like the beam of light shooting from the visor of Cyclops. The visor is protection; without it, he cannot control it because the heat is simply the excess.

Does everyone feel this? Does everyone understand why we must create? It isn’t a choice. It isn’t something we should be congratulated on. It is an ache. It is a wound that we think has healed, and then we catch a phrase from passers-by (“Why would he do that to me?”) or come to a familiar line in a song (“Anything can be a weapon if you’re holding it right”) or get to the end of a movie (The sensei presents the fighter with the pure soul the red belt) and the scab is ripped off before defenses can be raised. You are there again. Raw.

We ride the wave of blood that is streaming from our veins just until we congeal again.  We create to keep the mess contained. We create to maintain some illusion of control.

And then it passes.

Muses don’t sneak up behind you to whisper politely in your ear. They stay in one spot, screaming. We choose whether or not we want to visit Delphi; we choose where we want to sit amongst the rubble, whether in earshot or no.

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