Symphony of Insanity

The days before the Grand National Finals are dragging by, yet passing too quickly.  The demands of real life encroach upon the dreamworld that is racing.  How can I be expected to punch a clock, turn in purchase authorizations or clean the gutters when races need to be won?  Surely a doctor out there would write a prescription reading: "Patient is to avoid trivial bullshit until after the GNF.  This includes work and any dealings with the general public."?  Too much is left to do.  If the devil is in the details, then Ol' Scratch is riding heavily on my shoulders now, cackling sardonically in my ear.  Hours each evening are spent in the garage, the clinking of wrenches and clicking of ratchets keeping time with my soul.  Sometimes I just sit quietly, looking over the race bikes, hoping to imbue speed and reliability to the machines through telepathy and desire.

I feel like a schizophrenic conductor leading an orchestra of madmen in a concerto of crazy.  The music remains the same: dark, sombre, rhythmic and driving like a harsh rain.  Compelling.  The intensity and tempo rise and fall but it is always played affrettando, as if time is running out.  Even in my sleep I can hear the low, throbbing boom and sometimes I wake with my heart racing.  Once before I threw the baton down in a craven attempt to get it to stop, but it continued, weaving and twisting its own way, free of the womb and out of my control.  If I find enough speed I might be able to keep up with the music, and although part of me knows I will never be able to outrun it, it might be fun to try.

Fun indeed.

Can you hear it?