Mediocrity

Illuminated by the flicker of false light
I work alone.
Again.
Fingers dancing across the keys like tiny dancers
Trapped in a strange flamenco dance,
Staccato sounds driving the tempo of the words
As I struggle with the chance of success.
Terrified, the words tumble in a jumbled mess before me.
Mediocrity taunts me -
Seductively inviting me to stumble lest anyone discover
That I am not what I appear to be
And that all of my previous accolades
Are only brightly painted papers
Flapping in the wind,
Colours running randomly at the first rain.
Mediocrity…

The word feels comfortable in my mouth
Rolling between my tongue and teeth as though it belongs there,
Smooth and hard like a marble, it begs to be repeated.
Teasing me,
Begging to be swallowed up and drip warmly down my throat.
Only to choke me while I sleep.
Mediocrity…

Safe and warm it invites me to lay my head upon its shoulder,
Nestling in its comforting arms.

My fingers slow as the words trip up each other
And the slow, rhythmic crescendo in my brain rises,
Percolating, at the point of boiling.
I hear the kettle calling to me that my tea should be ready
If only I come and pour the bubbling water into my cup.
But I have no kettle. I don't even like tea…
A sigh seeps out my tightly pursed lips
My mind releasing the final steam from my skull,
As my fingers tire from their dance,
Lying limply as if to say they are done.
Mediocrity has at last come to my rescue,
Offering me salvation,
Splashing a life vest before my drowning soul.
And the critics will clamor with excitement,
Hanging on each syllable and verb,
"This is your finest work," they'll say.

My soul dances with relief,
Obscured by mediocrity…

by Debby Johnson

©2009Debby Johnson, all rights reserved.