Like A Fever Inside Of Me

I know I am not always at the keyboard or scratching at a pad with my pencils, but with this virus, I am infected. Constant. Always. Forever. The itch scratches to manifest through my body. Like a fever inside of me, creativity rolls, tumbles and punches to be the next thing to be evidenced through my sickness.

I am never at rest. I can only keep this illness at bay. My body cannot push back the press of ideas. Then some are only half-formed, pressing my blood to sweat. There is no escape from them. They are a virus eating at my life. I am consumed, subsumed, and all I want is to purge.

The Triumph of Death, painted in 1562 by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Museo del Prado, Madrid)

Every imagination raises my temperature, every possibility is an ache, every tale a chill in the heat of an August sun. I am never at rest, never at peace, I am turmoil of a fever never destined to break.

I am offered only the peace of the buried. I will burn with this infection until I disappear into the waiting arms of another pained creator. Shards of time offer me respite, where I can calm the ailment and still my mind. Unthinking escape, but the delirium lurks.

There is no cure. I seek no antidote. The malady is my meaning. Like a fever inside of me, I burn to forge my fantasy into verity.

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