The Peculiar Chronicles ~ Thoughts to Words

I don’t feel creative. I don’t feel the electricity rushing through my veins, or the bitter sweetness of dusty, fresh air. I don’t feel the suns warmth as loving and kind. I feel as if it’s more of a violent slap, a slap to get my gears moving, and go out and catch my dreams before they slip between my fingers like a bar of wet soap.

I fear it is a slap that’s so muscular that it sends me flying against a brick wall, leaving me gasping for that dusty air I could never taste. For that breath I’d crave would lead me crawling to the closest bookcase.I would inhale something else. It wouldn’t be dusty and fresh. It would be musty. I would be inhaling musty air that would sustain me until the night came to briefly visit.  Only then would I start to feel each pulse of my heart electrifying and be able to comprehend the word creativity.

Every single book that I’d dragged my pink painted fingernails across, I dreamed of reading. They would be waiting for me to turn each page of every title known. They would start from ‘A’ and stretch far to the letter ‘Z.’ You would need five lifetimes if you ever wanted to finish every book in the bookcase, but I’ve got all the time in the world. I’d first want to read the books about love doomed from the start, invasions of deadly creatures and then finish off with readings about the masters of Physics, but now all I feel is my eyelids growing heavy.

No electricity, no dusty air, just simply heavy eyes. I would try to fight it like I would creativity at first. I would pry them open, forcing them to read just one more page. I would even pray to the Sandman, to lift the small granules of sand because I had to read just one more page.

One can’t avoid sleep as one can’t avoid creativity, if it’s infused in your mind. Once it’s awakened, it can’t be shut off or put up for sale. Every mundane object takes shift into something worth creating. Every shadow you see becomes a shocking thriller, and every whisper you hear among the wind becomes a prophecy. You can’t just shut creativity off. You eat it, you dream and you even speak it. It’s who a person is now. It’s who they are going to become and who they might never become. I’m it.

Though all I can do now is hear the sun calling for the moon to take its shift. They’d swap flashlights and stand tall in the sky. Warding off any ill faced creatures threatening the human race. When that happens I can start to feel the dusty air turn to cool as the night enters. I can take a deep breath without the sunlight forcing me against its brick wall. I can even stand almost as tall as the moon and the sun.

Written by Alecia Writes 

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