I’m addicted

I admit it: I’m addicted. I never thought my habit would consume my every waking moment and haunt my dreams. But it does. I’ve tried to walk away, be strong, resist the urge, but it’s no use, I’m weak. Talking about it only makes it worse. Counseling only feeds it. The more I talk, the more I am filled with the compulsion that refuses to be silenced or denied. The need to escape, to be alone, to quench the thirst of my insatiable habit, summons my emanate return to its singular parlor. A sunset, a sunrise, every landscape, every flower, every gentle brush of wind sends me deeper into the clutch of its iron fisted tentacles.

My blinking phone display acknowledges family and friends have called. With no returned calls they wonder if I still exist in the land of the living. Green fuzzy and forgotten growth inhabits my near empty refrigerator shelves. Shopping for fresh nutritional replacements only results in a nightmare of whirling notions that beckon me to return home, to cloister myself once again, to give expression to the insistent hungered cry of my persistent addiction.

Should you fall into the steely grip of its hand, beware; your life will never be the same. Look at me and learn the truth. Take the step not lightly. Only if you are prepared to have your life consumed, your powers of perception quickened, your desires transformed on the altar of its allure, should you enter its hallowed gates, and then, and only then to rise above the ordinary, to become, to be, an addict, a writer.

I admit it: I’m addicted. Writing has become my compulsion, my life, and my task master. While I struggle to seek out the precise phrase, the most definitive adjective, the most powerful verb, the dusty cobwebs throughout my house hang undisturbed. Giving silent witness and undisrupted testimony of my compulsion, their noiseless slumber liberates dust-scrapes to reach their full potential.
For Christmas and birthdays I beg not for needless gifts of soap and shampoo, but for stamps and envelopes, and paper and pens. My friend, Slow Cooker, bubbles on throughout the day unless our comrade, Microwave, offers stale, nuked left-over treats. I can’t afford take out: I’m a writer. I have exchanged all the missed televised soaps, all the missed parades of misguided human fragility for the solace of giving life to tiny dots of ink on the landscape of blank white paper. And, in this giving of life, found my own.

I admit it: I’m addicted; I’m a writer.


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