There it is, rearing up in me again, the screaming voice inside my head, banging senseless messages against all four corners of my mind.

You must create. Make the world better with something you have made, or make something better until you do. Write. Paint. Draw. Burn something. Take a picture. Throw all of it away to the world. Or keep it to yourself. That’s a good idea, make something of it and post it.

But this son of a bitch inside never stays on topic long enough for greatness. It’s the man I live with every day but keep him safely caged behind a stoic expression. It is the man I stifle at times because of his lack of focus and perseverance. It is a way to protect myself from an inordinate amount of failures, but some part of me is concerned that in doing so I cut off a mad genius.

There are glimpses of unbridled creativity in the madness, but it’s all so fleeting and like the voice, deafening. I can’t pursue everything that I want to because there is no way I’ll live that long. I also can’t stop and pursue nothing because idle hands drive me to a different form of insanity.

I guess I’ll be damned in any case, so best to get used to the straight jacket. Madness is too much fun to deny.