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Apr. 10th, 2006 | 02:59 pm
music: the last - funker vogt
posted by: spinallandscape in icarus_society

She pushed her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. If nothing else, it was something to do with her hands while the rest of her head kept on hurting. If only this sensation would go away—leave her alone for at least a few hours. Maybe she could get something done.
She could feel her pulse beneath her fingertips and accepted it as a rhythmic answer: “Not… Bloody … Likely…”.
She gave a semi-audible groan.
“Not now, please.”
She could hear the purse of lips, it hung in the air like breath on a cold day.
Another glorious silent moment.
“Mmm how about a—“
“What part of ‘go the fuck away’ did you not understand?”

The door closed quietly, and for that she was thankful.

If she wrote it would go away. If she remembered correctly the headaches turned to music when she let the pressure go. If she could possibly recall anything but the thrumming beat of her own heart —beyond the pressure-echo-- she remembered how the pain went away like the slow bleed of the ink to the paper.

But there was nothing left to write.

No no, that didn’t make any sense. If there was nothing left to let go of, then it wouldn’t hurt like this. This wasn’t the natural state of things, it was the catalytic places she needed to emerge through. This tension was just embryonic creativity.

She felt like a host. She felt like she’d been taking pain killers and had run out.. after 3 years. She was just remembering wounds and her muscle was remembering how to bleed again.

She pushed her fingers harder against her nose.

What a little beast it was. What an annoying tic. What a chiding little demon on her shoulder. She’d flick them both off, angel and devil—to the trash with both of you!

The thing behind her forehead turned and knotted, as if responding. She imagined the 9 Muses as just different classifications for brain cancer. She tried to think of which one would be best for “Malignant”. Oh come on. That was easy.

She tried to think of a story she could write, a story that she could make from this point on. Something that would write itself. Maybe like something about a writer that gave herself a frontal cortex lobotomy with her Mont Blanc.

She wasn’t sure if it was like withdrawal symptoms or not. Though that seemed rather applicable, what it was more like (due to the whole point of this exercise (the fact that she hadn’t in a while))… it was more like trying to get off after being over stimulated. Or like being bored out of your mind after someone has proved themselves totally inept at oral sex. She tried to weigh out which was more annoying.

She couldn’t come up with a straight answer.

So she went back to wondering about tumors and evil things. She wondered if she should write something about a creativity tape-worm. Something that had latched itself onto the right side of her brain and started to suck the life out of her. Well, what she once thought was life and life’s blood and a necessity. She had a picture in her head of what the face of the parasite looked like. She couldn’t help it, she was horror-movie inclined. But then again, as it started to come up in higher resolution, it went from fluke-man to the face of an ex-boyfriend. After all, it was usually interpersonal relationships that fucked up her writing. She could be so damned focused on one thing. She compartmentalized everything from her friendships to her evening meal. (Please don't let the mashed patatos touch the comics her ex still had. Please.)

And that made it hurt even more. This wasn’t the place to talk about self-destiny and control, but if this vile little parasite was something she contracted from someone else, it would be more debilitating than anything viral. It would be the most control anyone had ever had over her, and the worst kind she could imagine. Maybe being angry would help.

She should write something just to spite everyone else.

That had to be a good enough motivator.

It always worked in all those other situations.


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