Logophobia

I sit poised, fingers at the ready. My right pinky rests heavily on the shift key, the rest of my hand tensed in anguish, waiting for the signal to begin. It takes but a moment to end the strange silence, my thoughts racing ahead of my fingers, not allowing them to cease their fluid motion. One after the other letters, numbers, commas, and periods are swept out of their chaos into order. Meaning cannot be derived from such patterns, these strange nonsensical combinations of shapes and sounds, dots and lines, rhetorics and derivatives. I am like a racer of ostriches, of cheetahs, of other animals of grandeur that all await my command to pounce, to leap, to soar on the effervescence of the imagination.

Wait!

My thoughts grind to a halt. The eagle freezes in midair, the leopard stops mid-pounce, the breathe of fresh air, of intellectualism, of creativity; they all stop as my mind balks. My fingers stumble, a key is hit out of place. Another follows. Niagra falls is nothing compared to the chaos that is brought about by my disturbed thinking. Grass withers and dies, trees change colors and shed their leaves in a vain attempt to gather energy for resisting. Resisting me. The change is instantaneous - animals grow old and die, never to reproduce, never to enjoy the now defunct joys of nature.

Wait!

The spirit of logic, that tiny voice of reason begins it's approach. Slowly at first, methodically. Detailed. Mandated. I am the tool of something larger, which is in turn the instrument of an infinite number of scientists hovering over cold wooden tables, the lamplight burning dimmer with each passing minute. Hour. Day. Week. Eternity.

Wait!

Ah, there it is, that creativity which I had harnessed so immediately. I grab hold of it, using that energy, that spiritedness to depress the backspace key, to erase that chaos. The destruction. Even cold logic cannot combat the brilliant fervor of my emotion as I begin again to write.

To create.

To destroy.

To be.