I have been subject to a voracious appetite. It can, at times, be insatiable, devouring every thought, every memory, corroding, eroding, digesting and excreting anything that does not wish to conform to its prescribed dietary requirement. But this specialised menu doesn’t contain food. Yes, tangible nourishment and nutrients are vital aspects of my life, and not eating properly can be a genuine source of angst, but this is a creative appetite. The kind that causes the mental glands to begin salivating when the scent of an idea arouses excitement. As you hope for an occasion, a scenario to come to fruition, it becomes a hunger moment. You’re literally hungering for it, and the more you desire, imagine, dream about the scenario the more it morphs, mutates, is extrapolated and reintegrated into something spectacular.
So the day when the occasion does occur, what do you do? Reality and fantasy draw closely together until for a short moment you suffer from double vision. Anticipating the voice on the other end of a phone call, the sound of music, those particular words. Or waiting for the gunshot, the pelt of concrete under thick-soled shoes, till it’s like a softness, the earth acquiring the same consistency as a burnt marshmallow. When you bite down, the glands that are drooling with a creative, day-dreaming anticipation, are jerked back, the bit of reality catching early.
It’s almost anticlimactic. That hunger moment. Yet it’s reassuring, reminding you of the imposing power of your creative faculties, but the ease of reality.