SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days

Filling Between The Lines

Only 10 more pages and I'm done with this notebook. Handwritten dreams marginalized, ruled on blue-lined mead. Freshly honed pencil, scratch, write my epitaph before you dull, sending me out for a sharpener or a sleeker instrument of graphite. Not even half way down, the white stares back, blank. How long will the game play before I...

Filling, between the lines. My mind moves in graphite sprawls, squalls from a barren mind, mined of matter less than pink, deep within the grey. Hefted utensil, heavier from growing disuse, lighter than the spilled ink, I think. What did I come here for? To write or babble or what?

Deeper in the Ticonderoga jungles I hack and stomp, all the while looking back, as if I could see where I was going from whence I came. Monkeys in trees mock me, and I put them there! One page filled, moving on to number nine for more...filling between the lines.

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The prolific spell will end soon. Just keep writing, stay elevated above the sucking, muddy plain/plane. Six pages to go? Lose count? It's better that way. Word counts and such are for editors and printers, not for you.

A lull. Too much static all around, plagued by the upheaval, the swells, the inflammation. Not sedate, no sedatives anymore. Remember what your therapist said. You can ride this one out.

We've run aground...again...just a sand bar in time. Wait for the tide to rise? How long is the wait? Or risk trying to manipulate this ship, shift it to lean back into the shallow water? What peril awaits then? Risk wearing out the crew, with no strength left to sail? Why not a motorized mechanacian of some sort? Everything I'm given is natural. I must trust the wind, the maps, these eyes...five pages to go.

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Recording Each Day:

Whenever one journal is closed and tucked away, I pull out another. My reflective mood seems altered by the medium I choose: paper vs. computer, pencil vs. pen, or different sized or shape notebooks. Each seems to stimulate me differently. One might remind me of a grade school notebook, another loose leaf, college-lined binders hold memories of former literary determination, or the notes of the journalist at a press conference or meeting. I could be creative, reflective; angry, sad or happy.

I don't try to interpret what each of these sounding boards does or means to me. My environment could as easily be a factor into my prolific endeavors. I am facilitated by these tools that record what I espouse. The documents that here have become, I can either choose to share or let fade into the oblivion. Nobody cares besides me what I truly feel or think. People might be interested, pry to read, but we always find a snag, a soft point when I drone them all away. And it's just me and my instruments recording each day until we find the right frequency.