- Adj. Sober

- Adj. Sober

A Chapter by chrysantheranium

One thought is all it takes. No, really my friend, one thought can cause an avalanche of thinking, and you don't realize that you're overwhelmed until you wake up with a creative hangover. You don't notice you'd gotten drunk on thought until you finally sober up.
You sit at that desk with some video playing above your head on this giant flatscreen TV that you could never think to afford out of your own pocket, and through the voices pouring through the screen, you hear your own. You make the mistake of listening to that one single, sweet thought, and that's it. That's all it takes. You're done for.
One thought leads to another, your head like a heavy diamond wine glass overflowing with the heaviest of water. You take one sip of that thing you craved for years full of writer's block, of artist's halt, a creative hiatus - you take one sip and d****t, you lose control. You can't help yourself. You plunge into a world within your head, you sit with a heavy weight upon your brow and your finger holding up your gargoyle of a chin, you stare into space and although you see so many different things, you cannot paint them out on paper. No, you cannot do it. You try, you pick up that pen and write down a few words, and you hate one letter, you hate one word, you - no, you hate it all.
Crumple it up. Throw it away. It was once a paper boat that you made to float on the river in your head, but the water's rushing in. The boat sinks.
But you're trembling now, you're aching to create, you want that river to keep pouring because your entire body has been through one hell of a drought. You start again. A new piece of paper, a new pen, some new ink, a new thought.
You smile at the work. You read it again. You frown. You sink.
What's it like then, my drunk friend? You sit there with shaking hands, knowing nothing but creativity, and yet you are absolutely mindless. You know nothing.
You have every material you need to make a raft to get off of the lonely island you've thrown yourself onto, and for some reason, you just can't get the raft to float. You're frustratingly stuck. You've got a thousand doors open, but you can't figure out how to walk through them.
And then, with this, the clock. You race against the trails of midnight, you start sweating and shaking and biting that damned bloody tongue of yours, you beat your fists against the paper instead of teaching your fingers to dance across it, and there it is. "Therein lies the paradox."

By gods, my dear friend, you've open the floodgates.

Your Titanic mind and that glacier head - did you really think you were invincible? That you couldn't destroy yourself? Why, you've been craving this feeling for so long now, you've been wishing and begging for the past creativity to flood back, so you should be very well acquainted with the responsibility and the weight it takes in order to float. And yet, despite this, despite this selfish need to keep drinking and drinking, this never-ending thirst to create, you fail. You sink.

How pathetic.

My drunk, sober friend. Your mind is bustling with liveliness, and yet it is quiet, and before you know it you've fallen through the waves of thought that have been flooding the wine glass that is your head. Do not move. Do not create. Do not focus. Do not lose focus. You know how much it hurts to feel the water spill over with each heavy movement, with each jerk of the head or neck, and yet you keep thinking. You keep pushing. You keep typing.
So there you are, on your hands and knees, breaking and cracking your bones while wiping floods of water off of your floorboard mind, hoping that if you wash hard enough it'll keep flooding until your floors are spotless and clean.
But you can't clean a silence of five years with just a few drinks. You cannot breathe once and expect to have all of the oxygen in the world to yourself. No, you are a balloon full of carbon dioxide, and you cannot expect yourself to float against the pressure of what's inside yourself.
Come to bed. Project yourself astrally, curl up in the arms of your lover, put those boats back into their docks where it's safe - for the ocean may have returned to the world in your head, but the lighthouse has yet to make its mark against the rocky shores. It is not safe to venture, sailor. It is not safe to drown.
Not yet.
Yes, come to bed. Stop writing, stop painting, stop breathing. Just come rest.
You have a big day tomorrow, now don't you, Captain?


© 2019 chrysantheranium


Author's Note

chrysantheranium
Ignore basic grammatical errors, as there are some rules that, as a writer, I don't care to abide by. I feel restricted when following these rules, and since I have such a hard time getting my thoughts across, I'd rather break a few rules than be grammatically "perfect."

My Review

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Featured Review

wow.... I honestly don't know where to start, every line was more poetic and truthful than the last. This is just what it feels like to be a writer sometimes. When you talk about being the island I was think about how isolated we make ourselves sometimes, even when we have a way out. and the doors, when we have so many choices but we just can't chose one, this is great.

Posted 1 Day Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

chrysantheranium

1 Day Ago

Thank you so much! I'm glad you enjoyed reading it and could relate to the words as well. Creativity.. read more
WeakFreak

1 Day Ago

I agree, and we have to use it wisely.



Reviews

wow.... I honestly don't know where to start, every line was more poetic and truthful than the last. This is just what it feels like to be a writer sometimes. When you talk about being the island I was think about how isolated we make ourselves sometimes, even when we have a way out. and the doors, when we have so many choices but we just can't chose one, this is great.

Posted 1 Day Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

chrysantheranium

1 Day Ago

Thank you so much! I'm glad you enjoyed reading it and could relate to the words as well. Creativity.. read more
WeakFreak

1 Day Ago

I agree, and we have to use it wisely.
Oh my the rumbles running thru the mind faint snapshots flickering to be found such a familiar fixation! nicely penned expression... Cranium!

Posted 2 Days Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

chrysantheranium

2 Days Ago

Thank you, Bunny! I'm glad that you enjoyed this chapter.
i really enjoyed this. good piece of writing - wording, flow, analogies. i can tell that you are a deep, philosophical, free spirit. many memorable lines. leaves a strong, lasting impact. love the question at the end ... :)

Posted 4 Days Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

chrysantheranium

2 Days Ago

Thank you for the review, Pete! This definitely put a much needed smile on my face.
This was a really good story. I loved the word choice and the repetition of some words.

My favorite line was "Yes, come to bed. Stop writing, stop painting, stop breathing. Just come rest."


Posted 4 Days Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

chrysantheranium

4 Days Ago

Thank you for the feedback, Emily! I'm happy you enjoyed it. :)

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Added on June 10, 2019
Last Updated on June 10, 2019
Tags: experimental, books, novels, will, testament, avant garde, spiritual, enlightening, thought provoking, thought, philosophy, memoir, personal, emotional, emotions, non fiction, human, poetry


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chrysantheranium
chrysantheranium

About
"Answer." || | Eighteen-year-old male with an anchor tied to his teeth. I'm not very careful with my words, as I was never taught to be, but I promise to try and keep you afloat to the best of my abil.. more..

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