The Process

A dusty box fan manages to drone out the grinding of teeth and erratic heartbeat but little else. The creaking of a chair followed by knuckles crack like popcorn and the frantic pounding of keys reverberates off the tile floor and fades into obscurity. From outside, the faint shrieking of car alarms and barking dogs seep in through the window and the tattered old blankets that cover them up.

Moans of displeasure and the snicks of a lighter act as a sort of soundtrack to the room, monotonous and seemingly never-ending, like bad elevator music stuck on a loop.

The screams of a young and angry man, lost in his search for the tenacious person he once was, and the passion that fueled him. The fire in his belly, that invisible muse that guided him to the deepest depths of his soul and back, to bear witness and reveal all that lies within, has vanished.

A long but creative list of curse words are occasionally interrupted by the bang of a fist slamming onto cheap wood as the internal creative struggle continues. Is inspiration like a candle, burning strong and bright when first lit only to inevitably dwindle down into total darkness, or like a campfire, one that requires some kind of fuel to thrive? More unanswerable questions, addressed to no one are hollered out until they are abruptly cut off by a violent coughing fit, then some panting, finally ending with a defeated sigh into a desolating silence.