Inspiration.

Inspiration. Words would run through my head as thought not my own, placed there. Phrases, word-pairings without preamble floated one by one behind my eyes forming strings of pearls that I could pluck forward or leave untouched. Pearls before swine, that’s what the Bible says, shoving their way forward towards the light. If in an empty room, I would pronounce them aloud; still quietish in case of eavesdroppers. These words held power, dispersing when said aloud. In my thoughts they felt solid, and they escaped into mist, smoke out of my barely opened mouth. Barely opened as if in question, in disbelief, spraying the previously charged words into mist.

Crouching behind the couch with my cheek against the itchy carpet, I inhale the stale smoky smell of mother’s cigarette. She thinks she’s blowing the smoke into the air, that it curls slowly towards the sky, that it catches on the breeze and floats away. Only I know that it sinks. That smoke, mixed with her own lung moisture, embeds itself deep into these carpet fibers until super-saturated, then drips through to the foundation. Her musty smoke plants itself into the earth where passersby tread on it. I like feeling the carpet with my cheek, it helps me remember that no matter where home is, the carpets smell and feel the same.

I know I’m different than mom because she never puts her cheek on the carpet. I like it behind the couch because no one can see me, it’s like my own secret club, my own house. I can wrap myself up in my blanket and look at the fraying fibers. Grandma knit this one for my mom, but I always take it with me because if mom doesn’t put her cheek to the carpet, she definitely wouldn’t run her eyes over each fiber of this blanket naming it her own. Waiting behind the couch until someone comes in takes a lot of patience, and it’s scary because what if someone sees you? They would tan your hide and scoot you to your room, not hug you and laugh at how you got into that weensy space. “How long have you been in there, honey? We were worried sick.” Mom would only ever find me by accident because you can’t find something on purpose if you aren’t looking for it. She always found me by accident.

One day I tripped over a strange device: click and drag to speak. Loop and swirl to say. These lines and circles stuck the words into reality. They could escape without evaporating into the air directly before fish bubbling mouth. If pressing device down harder, smoother, slower, ideas even looked and felt tangible. Once seen, these words, who could taste them? Those great orators, only they lack access. So they slowly mold here, musty. These words evaporate after years and centuries instead of seconds and milliseconds. Most of these words, phrases, pages, would gently drift away on the breeze; fodder for bird nests.