"A writers brain is full of little gifts, like a pinata at a birthday party. It's also full of demons, like a pinata at a birthday party in a mental hospital."
I have written about my Demons often enough that this quotation seemed incredibly apt. It made me laugh, for a brief moment. Then I had a visual, as I usually think in images not words, of my head being struck with the knobby stick of my reality, skull broken open, with no idea what will spill forth. The days when beautiful gifts shower down, covering the ground with brightly colored surprises, can seem few and far between, though cherished. The nights when my brain cracks open and the demons spill forth in a darkly chaotic flurry seem far more common. I never really know what will spew forth when Brain opens up and lets loose the secrets hidden inside.
I have thought that I would love a little predictability in my life, just a little. But it eludes me on every front. I have become accustomed to the chaos, unpredictability, disappointments, and the sticks upside the head. I've been brained all too often. So often that it does seem to be the one thing I can expect out of life, that smack upside the head, rattling me, blurring my vision, making thoughts spew forth without rhyme or reason. I do feel like a pinata, dangling casually from a tree limb, minding my own business, watching the party from a safe distance, and along comes some blindfolded miscreant swinging a lethal length of wood, intent on cracking me open, while some other yayhoo starts yanking me around by my tenuous hold on reality. It really is an assault on my peace, my sanity, my stability. I know the stick swinging savage isn't thinking of the damage to be wrought, only in the violent act itself. The glee of breaking open a carefully crafted, brightly colored, delicate shell of papier-mache just to see what is inside. I have spilled myself often enough with humpty-dumpty damage, to know just how difficult it is to gather up those gifts being trampled in the grass by careless feet, pawed at by gluttonous hands, then reloading myself, repairing the damage, only to await the next assault.
I wouldn't mind if on occasion, the demons would be loosed and trampled in the grass by those careless feet, stomped into well-deserving puddles of goo, or let to scamper off and infest another pinata. Sadly, my demons are clever, nimble little beasts, avoiding the jack-booted thugs with ease. And they are quite fond of my brain, having found it to be a warm, nurturing environment to raise their devilish brood. So they always return, finding their way home to roost. Nestling in, drowsy, waiting their 2am wake-up call, eager to burst forth from the smallest of cracks. Like I said; clever, nimble little beasts.
If I could even limit who wields the stick. Limit it to a select few with whom the sharing of my gifts would be a pleasure. Instead I feel the world has a free hand to grab that stick whenever the mood strikes, so assaults can come from any and every direction, even the least expected. I never know where the next strike will come from, or when. The parties just keep coming. The best I can hope for is to add extra layers of papier-mache, maybe slip in a few layers of steel, to keep my shell from cracking, to protect my gifts from careless hands. I rebuild, patch the cracks, revitalize my colors, refill myself with my little treasures, and yes my demons, and await the the next hack-handed attempt to break me. I hope I get stronger with each party.