Deadly Art

It seems simple enough. You have a story. You find a pen. You write it down. But the pen is deceptive. A simple tube of plastic and ink, a tool to wield as you will? No, no. The pen is a needle, injecting the pure opiate of words into your blood. That itch in your fingers, that voice in your head, they dismiss the danger. Just try it, one time won't kill you, you can always walk away. Then your finger is pricked, and you enter the world of the addict. You wake up in the night craving words, the taste of them prickling on your tongue. They run through your head all day like a mantra; you change them to the point of insanity, longing for enlightenment. You grow disillusioned, try to quit cold turkey. You realize it is hopeless when you get the word juxtaposition stuck in your head for an entire day, bleefully savoring its syllables over and over the way a smoker will lick her lips to savor the last traces of nicotine. You give up, fall back off the waon, and lose yourself in the blissful haze of words. There is no work, no food, no sleep-- only words. You could waste away to skin and bones, living on nothing but caffeine and the occassional bag of microwave popcorn, and not notice; you are glutted on symbols, alliterations, the rhythm of your thoughts, the fluidity of your sentences. This obsession could lead you to an early grave, but it is a risk you are willing to take. More than that, it seems a risk you are fated to take; once you begin, there is no avoiding it. Writing is a deadly art.