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.
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.