I had begun to write about insomnia, but my theatricality took hold of my lips and spilled sweet melodies upon my fingers as though caressing a harp (see?). And who would blame me? I’m tired and cranky, and I’m an expressionist. The woes of being a writer. I’m sure others will agree. Yet, I may have taken it a tad too far:
“Insomnia curls around my neck like a noose, leaving my bewildered eyes bulging after I have taken the ominous step towards restless reverie. It grips me with its razor grasp, each claw ominously laying eerie darkness on my pale features; the listless eyes, swollen bags, my hair a tangled mess from tossing like an injured animal in its cage.”
All right, I’m a tad dramatic. An actress. Goddess of my own stage. A ballerina in the limelight. I’m a writer. Woe is me. Now I must fall into a feigned faint.
Alliteration, my subjugation. Whittling words. A cacophony of linguistic theophany. I am in its harness. I fall victim to words. I am the unyielding slave of my own voice.
I am written.