Losing It

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

Frank shook his head. His brain was slowing down. He was sure of it. His thoughts came too slowly these days like ships navigating through a thick and treacherous fog struggling through a sea of syrup. His brain felt like it was wrapped in smothering blankets somehow insulating it from the thoughts inside itself. Or maybe it was because these floating unfinished ideas couldn't connect to each other, aligned like mismatched puzzle pieces. Something disrupted the thoughts between his unconscious where they arose and the conscious where he could think about them. It reminded him of the few times he experimented with cannabis, legal now but not his cup of tea. Was he drugged? Had he damaged his brain?

Tapping his temple, he tried to think!

He had read something beautiful. Beautifully perfect words. What was it? He couldn't remember. Whatever it was, it was gone for good. A part of him recognized that he would never remember it, and that joy and perfection would elude him forever.

Tears welled up in his eyes.


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Comments (1 so far!)

ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

Its like when you have a dream that you can't remember..or when you forget why you walked into a room.. but the tears, I picture that as frustration.

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