Monday, October 24, 2011

like popcorn, but the bag's too small

Alternately titled "the urge to flee". Entirely separate from any specific issue relating to my professional or personal life, I am housing a burning urge in my mind to flee. See my earlier post "a drowning nomad" for the more depressed variation on this theme.

On top of the fact that I'm programmed by my life history to be accustomed to a periodic change of scenery, I am pretty sure it's ADHD telling me beautiful things about the greenness of the grass on the other side of the fence - casting visions on the screens behind my eyes.

It's telling me that getting a plane ticket to Las Vegas to visit my sister, work in a diner, and let the desert dessicate my youthful complexion is a stellar idea. It's telling me that I'm most certainly going to have to move to NYC to reignite the playwrighting career that I abandoned on the West Coast six years ago. It's telling me that there must be something luxuriously dark, oily, intriguing and seductive just below the surface of day-to-day if I just look a little harder and tap into the poetry seeping from my guts. It's telling me that the truth might be lurking in the geographic monuments of my homeland and I might have to take a pickaxe to hardened granules in order to reveal it. It's telling me that the bottoms of wells collect secrets that must be found in order to be told.

On the surface I am "managing impulsivity" as I always have...with mostly invisible discomfort, with refocusing my mind repeatedly throughout the day, and of course these days, with medication.

But my heart and soul are writing anarchistic graffiti on the transparent walls of my inner skin. They're talking too loudly and they couldn't care less. The whispers twist me away from the task at hand as I struggle to shut them out for as long as it takes (and that probably means forever).