Whenever I am using a soluble painkiller, tiny bits of it seem to spread around the glass like ash from a volcanic eruption.Due to some no doubt pretty basic chemistry the stuff isn’t visible during the reaction but only appears a few moments after I’ve drunk the potion, as if spread on the table by a ghost between blinks.

At times, the clean space in the middle where the glass used to be brings with it visions of a spooky crime scene, one where evidence that someone was killed is all over the place but the body is nowhere to be found.

And, at other times, this residue brings with it a profound sense of melancholy ,becoming via some alchemical process the tangible essence of being spent; a stark reminder that you can never go back, that every moment that passes takes with it a piece of you and both are set in stone never to be recovered and any attempt to do so, to get a piece of you  back, leaves you with nothing more than a pile of dust.

Ah.

Writing inspired by an off the shelf painkiller. 

I never expected my muse to be that bizarre.

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