Something for Nothing

I've missed the way words threaded together grow limbs, reaching as they stretch toward your ears. A claw... a hook... wrapping around your canal and before you realize it, this phrase has a hold of you. Your brain gears toward a vision; fires up images that send shock waves through your nervous system.

You can see it.

You have lived it.

Now, someone else has you pegged, with words your palette salivates over.

A deliciously descriptive way to bubblewrap damage. A luscious marketing spin, a serendipitous rebrand.

Writers, we make the mundane cute, and the sharp knives shiny.

Writing without the seductive cloak of artistic interpretation is a sealed room leaking air. Unbedazzled wordplay, typographical wet rags, keyboard ASMR for eyeballs... I fall off the edge of my mind a thousand times before a textual conclusion.

I am a creature born of cryptic scrawls and curious scribbles. My heart lusts after a witty penning of words, chases pavements of paragraphs, skips for staircase sentences. Take me somewhere. Take me anywhere, but here.

I want to time travel to the darkened library where the old books perfumed the atmosphere, the fire somehow never felt warm enough, and the Bourban-soaked piles in the rug smuggled secrets of the night before.

I want to teleport to the corner of Damen and Schiller on a night that cradled a crisp chill beneath its backdrop like a care package. Where his silhouette faded to black quicker than the echoes of heart-shatter.

I don't want to read what happens next, I want to feel it. Take me through the lived-in tracks that tip-toe past the only room whose walls bleed as much as your soul.

I've missed the way that stories have altered the sequence of my DNA and caused me to question everything I've known before they happened. Hold my heart hostage and remind me what it's like to feel the stakes or don't pick up the pen at all.