Anonymole – apocryphal agitators

I am surely cursed.

I can look at a blade of grass, a cloud, a mote in the sunlight, or nothing at all — the emptiness of a tipped bucket or unfinished barrel and see a story, see the makings of the work-a-day effort, the striving, the agony of completion as the task is done and the next as it is planned. These and more as an entire life is envisioned, run through its trials and finally extinguished.

I can’t turn this off. Or rather, I can turn this off, but if I looked, I would see this constantly.

But, yes, I do turn this off. I have to. If I don’t, it would be like living in a fast forward cascade of fictional events, spilling from a dreamed reality, dragons, and alien planets, and financial equations, and tiny thumb-handed beings trying to build a city from packing peanuts. It just never stops.

No. It does stop. I stop it. The fact is, I know I can’t deal with it, so I kill it. Intentionally.

I kill it, often with alcohol. Mostly, with alcohol. But that only inflames the sprites within my mind. Oh, to they enjoy a spin on the spirits, a dance on the drink. Fortunately at these times, my fingers can no longer follow my thoughts and it’s there where the fancy leaves the page. You may never know what happens after. Which is sad. But, rest assured, know that what transpires is a true whimsy of enormous wonder and possibility…