When I say She is a Drug . . .

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

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

I breathed her in.

A storm of quicksilver lightning, and winds so cold they burned hot, rushed into me, consuming me. Trapped with pulsing, unchecked energy, I was helpless as a terrible violence expanded in my chest, rising to my head. This was her whirlwind and I was little more than an insect in her grasp. I dropped backwards, falling infinitely down into an expanding void, and then I was flying, exhilarated and free, and then I fell again.

Out of control. I tried to take control of my body to make it follow my command. For a glorious moment, I was able to a single breath. Comforted, I--

Flashes of light burst behind my eyes like the grand finale on the fourth of July. Radiant whites, electric blues, neon greens and yellows exploded, changing colors, merging into new colors, before breaking apart and exploding again. Geometric patterns lived, died, and evolved before me. Their vibrant colors stained the edge of my vision, building up a chromatic residue. Overwhelmed, I choked.

I was drowning in her.


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Comments (1 so far!)

ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

There is too much of a good thing...

  • #3380 Posted 4 years ago
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  • Published 4 years ago.
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