The Writing Process

Imagine a dark and maniacal place. Where the demons from the deepest recesses of your mind crawl out and smell fresh air. A place where you’re worst childhood nightmares become reality. This place has no bounds, it has no rules, and it is not even a place. To call it a place would mean it is a piece of land or some kind of mass, but it has neither of these. Imagine your brain as a cube, a hollow cube with a person standing inside it. The man is a normal white collar man with a shirt and tie with well groomed hair and a smile. When this man thinks he thoughts bounce off the sides of the cube and come back to him, so he knows which of these thoughts are rational and which are irrational. That is how the normal mind works, but in this place, the mind is not normal. Imagine the walls fall down and the man is looking at eternal white surrounding him. He begins to panic and thinks too much. But he is used to these thoughts being bounced back to him and when everything is rational he does not question. What he doesn’t know is that he believes that 2+2=5. He believes that glass is the product of the slow vibration of Garth Brooks hitting an American frog at the velocity of 55.687 mph on Tuesday March 20. He sees things that scare him and bleed mayonnaise. This is what happens when the walls fall down, you fall into a state of discovery and the mind doesn’t know anything but to expand and relish in the information it never, soon he gets idea’s that sound brilliant and he feverishly grabs a pen and writes them down in Aramaic to preserve their holiness. 4 hours later he has 199 pages of this and keeps going like a machine he pumps out words, he doesn’t eat, he doesn’t sleep, and all he does is think. He thinks freely for the first time in his life, his thoughts swirl around him and run down his spine into his thighs like some kind of opium high. He sees like a camera angle and is able to move it behind him like in some third person video game, and watches from that view. He begins to have an out of body experience that lands him in the hills of feudal Japan. His eyes are quick and frantic like an intimidated rodent and his skin becomes oily. He then strips down to his underclothing because his shirt and pants have offended him in a way you or I could never understand. He breaks the pen and throws it because it doesn’t do him justice. But now he has nothing to write with so he lets out a bloodcurdling scream that wakes the dead. He rushes around the room in search of a pen screaming “THE SQUARE ROOT OF 1 is 0” when he realizes that there are no more writing utensils he stops in the middle of the room and just stares at the walls, through his eyes you can see the brain working, thoughts slithering around like snakes in the Amazon waters. He knows what has to do, he grabs the closest blunt object and smashes the pinky on his dominant hand completely off and continues writing in his own blood. He pays no mind to the wound nor made a face while he did it, it was something that had to be done, like paying taxes. It’s been days now and the stench rises in the room and a small green cloud begins to appear above his chair. He still writes like his thoughts have no end, because they don’t, it flows out of him like the blood of his little pinky. His stack is now well over 3000 pages and he still writes on, a man possessed. He once green eyes have now turned to a hazy gray and his hair is beginning to fall out. He rips it out of his scalp as it hangs down before his eyes. Nothing will obstruct the product. When the pinky runs down he throws another fit, bashing a hole in the wall in the process. The wall falls down and a small vacuum appears in the void. He looks out the whole to see the galaxy swarming around him, there are stars and planets as far as the eye can see. He plugs up the hole with money, and finds a hammer under the desk and smashes another finger till the blood flows freely. His fingernails are starting to become long and are affecting the writing so he rips them of at the root and blood oozes on the paper, he pays no mind. He then realizes that he could save the blood and use it later because he doesn’t have enough fingers to write. He finds a small makeshift inkwell and lets the blood drip into it. He then runs into the kitchen and find some toothpicks with which he will use as quill. After running back he curses and screams for the strangulation of his ideas. He has been too busy to notice that the green cloud above his chair has started having its own precipitation and small electrical storms onto a month old turkey and ham sandwich that is considerably green.
He continues on some form of energy that the mass population hasn’t been able to access. He hasn’t eaten in three or 4 days and he is becoming ill and sickly. He coughs in between every word or so, and he screams that it isn’t coming out as fast. His pages have now reached the 10,000 mark and he is starting to slow down mildly. All that once was his former self is completely gone and some primal core remains. He runs out of blood and starts crying because he has no more fingers left to gouge and he is completely dehydrated and he cannot find any place to draw blood, he is dying and he knows it. He doesn’t cry because he is dying he is crying because he can’t continue to write. He now notices the green cloud raining on his ham and turkey sandwich, he tilts his head like an animal and stares it. He then zooms in and sees the microscopic animals swimming around. He watches them with wide eyes and watches them progress. They turn from single celled organisms to multi celled and he even watches them as they become visible on his desk. He sees the walking on the sandwich walking around astounded on how they have life. “My children!” he yells in a regal voice and all eyes fix on him. They stop and continue to grow at an 800 times speed and they become miniature people and worship their god, who is now dead because he hasn’t eaten in months and his mystery fuel has depleted. They mourn their fallen god and continue to progress on the turkey and ham sandwich, they become a whole civilization with heroes and tyrants and laws and religion. They name their land masses and elect governments. A new world has started. They wave war on the inkwell and claim it as Man Mountain in remembrance of their god. Soon there are old ones who tell marvelous stories of the old god and the young gather around. The cadaver is now starting to rot and bugs flock to it. The small people are enraged, their god is being eaten, they form an army massive as any man has ever seen and they attack the bugs, a 37 year war ensues and results with the little people winning by one man who is badly wounded. He stands on top of the fallen god and screams “FOR FREEDOM” and falls to his death among the bodies of men and bugs. The room is empty and then a dirty pile of clothes begins to stir…

Then you step away and look at the paper in front of you that reads only one sentence. His hair was short.