Honesty & espresso — the fiber & timbre of a writer in a room filled with stacks of silent solitude; concentration is my companion & we do not converse, only contemplate, quiet quelling in unspoken scholarly self-devotion. My nerves, buzzing up & floating down, are distracted by the building pressure as the ideas stay seated & media never stops.
Do you hear it though – a leaky syncopated tapping. Disrupted, I leave my desk to search the source, but can find no droplets cutting through the peace like a regulated physical torture of repeat — the resonance so distracting, so striking, it insizes the previous baseline of silence.
Now — new noises — tightly wound sounds in the background tocking like a comfortable clock, incessantly chiming but never heard, pendulum pulsations, a battering ram of ticking time.
— Don’t you hear them demanding to be written? – ideas growing in me, all the heartbeats resounding, percussive pounding. Characters howl & gather to revel in the delicious taste of terror’s crazy raging, a massive missive suspended under a thin layer of skin, pulsing with the demands’ disappointment of my flimsy writing whims. Throbbing over tonality, the book breathes & brutalizes itself behind my breastbone, bruising & burning with bass.
Screams add to the cacophony of reams of paper ripping as I claw at my cardiac cavity — the silence — I need it to tear through so it stops, so the story will pronounce its’ own name above the continuous hum of creation.
The skin peels as the parchment heart pulses, typewriter tapping letters of every type of tomorrow, hammered home by my hollow humanity’s inky hands, scratching their way into existence & radiating among the pages — my hole heart a flashpoint of words & worlds.
FX, Espresso: Jamie Leigh Matteucci