Finding a voice
Sitting on the balcony, watching the clouds scroll peacefully across the sky. A cold beer to one side gathering condensation from the warm air, droplets racing each other down the glass as he watches on, enjoying the sport whilst the fug of the previous night slowly ebbs away, evening slowly washes in.
Hopefully he bashes the keys, relaxing into the process with which he is well versed, the act of hoping, wishing, willing the words to take form, grabbing at threads from the jumble of his mind. He often starts this way, the writer thinks to himself, and something will usually manifest itself and slowly take form. Sometimes what is written is never seen but used as a starting point, a gentle prod to his addled cortex as he stumbles onwards through the prose.
He wonders if he will discover anything new this time.
Feeling one remove from his reality, close enough to feel the presence of the familiar but conscious of the altered state. He has been pondering this for a few days now, too long for any sane person, but he understands that sometimes his mind needs to relax, to unravel, to step back from the current and view things from a new angle, a new direction. The remove has been sought, and found, before but this is different, this is controlled and, reassured, he ponders on. Can the insane control their state of mind? He believes so.
His fingers pick up speed and the glimpse of a smile creeps across his face, tiny muscles twitching as the synapses fire, thoughts funnel onto the screen and the words flash into pixellated life, his brain sparks and dazzles, pulsing with fireworks, he starts to feel alive, refreshed.
He pauses to drain the cold beer, enjoying the chill as it works it’s way down, mouthful after mouthful until, the bottle empty, he releases the moment and sets the bottle down. Always such small moments, glimpses of beauty and life in the strangest places, the feeling of alive.
He knows where this has come from, Kerouac the prompt, providing the moment in which he needed to start, but our writer knows that the form and voice are not his, for they are never his.
So, a charlatan then, a thief of styles, a rogue. Or perhaps a wanderer picking his way cross-country, marvelling at everything new and bold, dazzled sometimes, lost in the main but relentless. Pushing onwards the only way he can, the only way he knows. Grabbing from here and there, recycling, adjusting, diluting.
But he is content, safe in the knowledge that only he knows this. With a smile he presses on as the gentle breeze tickles his bare back.
He realises what it is he must do, what it is he must say, and slowly starts to consider it. Slowly, with his consideration masking his direction, he makes notes, starts over, and makes some more. Then, decided, he pauses. Another beer arrives, colder than before and he feels it freeze down inside him.
Setting the glass down he watches the bubbles race to the surface. Ohh to be that bubble, deep down and clinging before bursting for the surface, helter skelter, hell bent, raging with determination then with the slightest ripple and hardly a sound, disappearing into the ether above. What brief but charged joy, what glorious focus. How alive.
With a sigh he realises that it is over, the momentary rush has gone and he starts the return to his normal state, freed from the surface like the bubble before him.
Unsure now, and pondering once again, he knows this was enough and that it is always this way. Another country, a different culture, and the return to the old and familiar takes it’s time. He is content though, regardless, and this will do for now. He will return and delete. He has before but something catches and decides. Let it live for there is nothing else.
That is all.