Coursing through my veins, a pulse that throbs to the point of pain, is this need to purge the words inside my head. Lit from within, they boil and churn, sometimes in a coherent rhythm, sometimes in a vortex of confusion and madness.
Unbidden, they emerge as fully formed creatures, with backstories and foreshadows. They dance along the fringe, teasing memories that could have been, that would have been, that want to be.
They comfort me in the wild gloaming, singing soothing lullabies and whispering sweet fairytales. They haunt me in the blossoming sunshine, lurking in warm shadows, leaving a rime of fear on my skin.
In my senescent Metaphorphosis, I will yield to this mania, and become that pulse coursing through someone else’s veins, that whisper in someone else’s ear.