Writer's Disease

by Michael Tusa

‎"Do you like the paint?" she said this with an air of superiority.

 Of course I liked it, I knew what she was thinking. 

"Yes, the darker shade really accents the house very nicely" I said briefly. 

I began to think. 

She took no notice of me.

"Yes, I thought so too, I went to the store and this rather sickening man insisted I go with a lighter color, but of course I knew."

 It was putrid.
 It looked like Sam I Am ate green eggs and ham and puked all over the walls.

"Yes, well its very nice" I said frankly.

Suddenly my heart fell flat.

I left the room quickly, leaving her in her cave.

 I walked outside and immediately felt a sudden rush of relief, followed by deep remorse, guilt, and a sense of unyielding doom.

 I walked slowly towards the nearest tree, seeking solace in its shade and quiet leaves. 

I buckled to my knees suddenly, heavily, my body abruptly stopping, defying physics.

 I breathed slowly in and out, and wheezed heavily, my lungs sounded like angry bees.

 I looked up towards the sky and cursed God several times, and winced. 

Anxiety is my sun, I thought. I'm just a lonely rock floating through space.

 I was being a depressive romantic.  A term I coined, and insisted existed. 

My psychologist chuckled deeply, "That's called writer's disease."

Still half laughing at his joke trying, squinty eyed, to make out the writing on his notepad.

I laughed because I was expected to, and lost focus in the blinds, and the garden I half saw outside.