I grabbed a tissue from a nearby stack and stuck it in my bleeding nose. It entered the hairy space of red snot and the blood was barred from exiting in an eager rush to decorate my keyboard with more roses. I tilted my head back and felt my eyes fill with red visions. Traffic lights blinking. The sunset on a humid day. The sun rising on a hangover. The moon seen through rain clouds briefly. A dead bird fallen from the nest. The stray dog poisoned and dying unknown in a rice paddy. A bridge collapsing on a bus full of school kids. The mosquito I caught and let go. Ink blots. Cloud blots. Leftovers discarded after a meal.
The blood stops but the words don’t. The keyboard is sticky wet. No time to clean it properly. I use another tissue. In the wind of the fan it jumps out my hand and dances like a home-made American beauty short film or a feather finished visiting Forrest. I snatch it out of the air with some chopsticks. I wipe the keys until I can see the now-pink letters again. I roll the two tissues up into a ball of red and white and green before doing a Michael Jordan maneuver. I’m not Michael and this isn’t basketball, so I miss. I miss again and use another tissue to clean more red bread crumbs that dot the tiled floor near the trashcan.
I enter my space again. The sacred writing space. My bout with the Dreaded Nose Bleeder has left me weakened and dizzy but alive. The red ink between the keys keeps escaping my cleaning attempts. Soon it invades the computer itself and I stare raptly as the words seem to type themselves. What manner of writing is this? I sit down.
free at last we are free free to write free to exist and free to be all we can be be be be
I reach out a finger to continue typing when the words stop. The wind from the fan must have dried the blood because the keys are a little slow to respond. To be safe I unplug the keyboard and take it and the trashcan to an abandoned temple. The air there is still and expectant. I open the bottle of lighter fluid I grabbed from the bar downstairs. I use my scooter keys to punch a hole in the rusty lid. Lighter fluid sprays on the tissues and the keyboard. I smell the plastic heat before it burns.
Back home with a new keyboard I write again. I’m still troubled by the things I saw in the smoke at the temple. The molten mass that was my keyboard took a long time to burn. It went through a lot of interesting transformations. A pair of hands praying. A foot. A tree. A heart. Nothing.
Now I sit typing with a pair of nose plugs nearby. Just. In. Case.