I’m hot. After the cold shower that was spring in Montreal, the heat is back with a vengeance, and so am I: to create, to blog, to burn the fire. Sticky thighs have glued me to the rubber exercise ball that doubles as my desk chair, there is nothing to stare at but a flat-screen and nowhere to go but the circus of my mind. Anything goes. The greatest show on earth!
How do I get there?
I crawl inside. At first, it’s dark and dank like a clogged drain. I inch my way through the brainy slime, pinching my nose, careful not to engage with a stinking phrase, limp ideas or any clever, wordy shit that might distract me from finding that beacon of light, that clanging bell, the nirvana of a writer’s inspiration. On my belly, I slink my way through a graveyard of lame thought; discarded words splatter my face and paper-cut the flesh of my now nude body, stripped of humility in the sour face of creative mediocrity.
I will overcome. I am a warrior on the path, heaven-bent. I push through the bloody canal into the swirling, colored lights of the infinite sky and throw myself in grateful ecstasy, at the foot of the dream.
My mind blows bigger than the ball on which I sit.
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