I was having trouble communicating with all of them, my coworkers. All of my exclamations were missing their marks. My throat chakra was like a haphazard hurricane, spitting the wrong words at the wrong time and miring my relationships into the muck.

I told Jillian about what was going on and that’s when she told me.

She said she didn’t want to come off as a nut, “But something wicked is this way coming, Brother Ishmael.”

A gaping hole into hallucination. A pit to dream through, and to pull dream out of. Multiple weeks. Nightmare creatures abounding.

This sinking feeling into the sidewalk grumbled in my gut as God and the demiurgy, Mercury in my first house, by the way, of a Scorpio rising, started Steppenwolfing my reality realm over the cusp of the ship’s front sails sending our nose diving into the underworld, the sands of time being kicked up into our eyes from the first hoofbeat of the second hand.

The struggle is real. My lord and patron saint of literature was making his second yearly run through the rut, and here I was left to fend for myself in a highly sensitive submersible, the hordes of Moloch, or was it Mordor, consistently surrounding me, in plain sight, the multifaced god in your feed and in the fog.

Oh, the trials of a talented writer! When the spirit has sunk beneath the periphery of your vision, what’s it take to keep you from reaching into your skull and ripping out your eyeballs, throwing ‘em against the wall. Autobiography on live feed. Streaming down, two old shoes of runny eggs, overcooked and underdone. The narrative waits for no one. Together, the audience and I, but I’ve got to admit there is a separation between us. It’s that same separation between the me, the I, which you as well may be, as I am part of the they, the that, that thing that you are always facing, dealing with, to you. They don’t let the days pass you by. They really do need you to give them what they want, and keep giving them what they want until you reach success!

“Relax” say the charts. “Use this time to regather yourself.”

And that’s what I was trying to do. But the hordes don’t stop for anyone. They beat against the hull, and they crowd against the registers, queuing up, as Jillian would call it, cash handed, exchanging for store credit, with credit cards being swiped within three days for a full refund. Pink streaks of emergency being smeared all down the tape which gets changed out and replaced day after day forever, or so it surely seems.

“Just lie back and relax, nobody will fault you for it.” says the chart. “Literature is on hiatus, to be replaced with silence.”

So, harboring my battle wounds with no muse for confessing,  I dropped upon the couch of rest, a knockout punch like a period for the moon watchers or the end of a sentence, just lying there, like a sack o potatoes, unconscious, waiting for the fountain of glory to come this way back round again.

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