(Why the fuck were writers skirting on the edges of insane? Was she going insane?)
And then another alien feeling thought.
This feeling felt powerful and compelling. Had another person moved in and took up shop in her head. The sensation overcame her more to the point of taking full control and she lived for control. This feeling like the observer to her own mind was enough to go Boom. As indiscriminately as she felt earlier in the day she knew she didn’t have a goddamn answer.
Now the writing calmed her and the dripping jaws of insanity slowly leaked its way away. That didn’t make the fear feel any less real, let alone the anxiety.
Maybe I took a bad acid trip–is that what this was? Soon her thoughts poked at her and poked at her as if demanding answers she didn’t have. Am I dead, she thought. Maybe I didn’t wake up from that hangover and maybe I’m not even a writer. And now more confusing the full breaths were back with her barely even noticing.
Slowly reality began to set in again like blood rushing back into her brain. Hello Moto. Hello Friend. (How had these flowers begun to feed).
What the f@#k was that!
(She told herself to stop with the acid trip already–there was no acid trip. What sad thought anyway, how the fuck does anybody forget a fucking acid trip).
The power of indiscriminate thought clearly wasn’t helping here. The heat of the sun warmed her right arm as if intentionally to distract her. Perhaps that was the tap of God, she thought. In lieu of everything else, and forcing herself to focus she quickly hopped up and told herself too much had to be done, time did not allow this shit–it never did.
Every time she’d get away from him another intervention would happen. Like the dream with the talking doll recently, told her she should stop smoking. Right before it’s face was swung at by some unidentifiable person. It’s animated little body receded to nothing more than empty plaster, half it’s face gone just like that.
“What did you do!!” She remembered herself begging when it happened.
Even upon waking she remembered feeling upset for this cartoon like doll and being amazed by how alive it felt having it talk to her. She waited all day to run it over with him–he was always psychoanalyzing her dreams and he was good at it. Sometimes so good it made no sense (if there was any explaining that).
“That doll is your angel speaking to you,” he said without a hint of doubt or absurdity. She chose not to say anything too uncomfortable to acknowledge that is exactly how she felt. There was a deeper silence now.
Again, Time doesn’t allow a lot of thought.
As he liked to say, “The Nephilim Are Fallen.”
“Baby, this is what you came for
Lightning strikes every time she moves..”
“And. Everybody’s watching her.”