nude highway driving

I think I figured it out: I am a great, prolific writer. I was meant to set the world on fire. Words naturally flow from me like light from the sun, spilling onto countless pages as my hand races to keep up with my soul. I’m a Celtic-Buddhist shaman, a wide-open view of the world that’s a mix of the Romantics and the Beats, with a dash of H.L. Mencken thrown in for journalistic charm.

Unfortunately, they^* found out about my abilities before I fully realized them. They understood the Madness & Joy I was going to unleash on the world, and promptly took action to prevent it. They inserted an entire, separate consciousness into my head - it might be a creature, it might be a machine - that was preloaded with the latest in overly critical thoughts, anxiety and insecurity.

It’s brilliant, really. The “invader” is powered by brain electricity and triggered into action by any hopeful, creative or aspiring thoughts on my part. I think of a story idea, he shoots it down. I decide it’s time to start freelancing, he convinces me I’ve spent too much time not writing articles. I ponder graduate school or a writing workshop in the desert, he tells me I’m light years behind anyone else who will be there and probably will be sent packing with a tuition refund. I look at job openings, he explains why I don’t qualify for any of them. I decide it’s high time to take some risks, he declares all risks will lead to failure.

I don’t know how to destroy him. I know that if I let go and get out of my head I feel better, but I can’t figure out how to banish him from my head. Their technology is just too strong.

* I don’t actually know who “they” are, but think they could be some obscure government agency sworn to diminish Sids or perhaps some weird alien race who hates inspiration.