Suds (II)

I turned the screens off. Put them away in drawers and distant rooms. Tried to remember how to read a book, how to focus without being force fed, how to dream without being told the colors of the palette. By mid morning, the ants were already crawling through my belly. By lunch,  they'd taken over my lungs, forced fast and shallow breaths out of the small hollow that remained in my chest. I tried to be curious instead of afraid, to think all this lies waiting while I fill the silence with insipid fluff. Put on rubber gloves and started on the dishes instead, tried to breathe, tried to ground myself to anything that existed and finally thought, nevermind, have at it, have at me, do what you will. 

I expected a fire and got a flood. 

Because in front of my eyes, beyond dish bubbles and dirty plates, the story came together. It told itself in my voice, twisted and curled around aching hearts and poorly covered bruises, tied itself to paintings and dreams and roots and ideas, made clear to me how it wanted to enter the world and that I must be the one to do it. 

If I cried into the sink it was only for relief. If I stopped in my tracks and stared increduously into the immense space around me it was only for gratitude. I said I would write the story when I knew it and now I knew it. I said there's a magic to creation that I cannot believe until I see it and now I believe it again. 

I sat down at the word processor shortly after, no longer concerned with dishes or hours or any of the ants that crawled in me before. I once was lost but sometimes you find yourself by looking for something else. 

Perhaps it wasn't really something else. 

The word processor burns and hums and warms. The flood is here.

Let's begin.