The Bloody Doors Off

For the past hour, I’ve been vacillating between extreme outrage and depression.

All manufactured.

It’s not real. Not the reason for the anger or the downbeat.

No.

It’s Harold.

He’s picking fights in my brain, trying to stir up shit.

Oh that’s right, not everyone knows who Harold is.

Harold is the voice of despair that lives in the back of my head.

He’s been quiet the last while.

Or I thought he had been.

I’m beginning to suspect he’s also behind my writer’s block.

Insidious, Harold is.

There’s a small sense of relief, now that I’ve recognized his handiwork. Could’ve picked a fight over the stupidest non-reason. You know. Bibbidy bobbidy bullshit. (I came up with that line for a short play. I like it. I don’t care what you think.)

Now if I could just shake him loose.

The bugger’s got sharp fingernails. Claws. Talons.

At least I’m starting to get my thoughts out again.

Let’s not make a big deal out of this.

It’s early days yet.