And on some days...
the tears are so hot they scorch the ink right off the page. These are the times when you fight the ache in the pit of your stomach and ignore the chaos in your mind. You can't eat on days like this, nor do you have any inclination to. Everything around you is blurry and out of focus. You exist, but only as a representation of yourself.
My most intuitive friends recognize them and honor the distance I require. One's eyes and gaze can always tell you just how far they have retreated into their thoughts. You are here and not here all at the same time. You know you have to get the words out so you can swallow again and snap back to reality; thus, you type as quickly and ferociously as you can for relief, but really for something greater. I cannot describe the urge that wells up inside of you, shaking your core and dominating your best intentions and actions.
But, when at last you succumb and give in to it, the words pour and flow out....page upon page.....It releases its hold on you, and as it empties out you can breathe and process and come to. When you can write no more, you are free until the next time it overwhelms and consumes you again. And, when you are free, you are left empty, drained with eyes swollen and red, with no recollection of time lapsed. The eruption of my heart, mind and soul is spent.
These are the days I write the best, the purest and most meaningful. These are the days I need a few days to recover from. At the end, I am left emotionally exhausted sitting, staring off into nothing. There is a tree outside my balcony with a crooked leaf that I could perfectly create from photographic memory that I fixate on after days like this.
"Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead."
—James Joyce, letter to Henrik Ibsen, 1901.
the tears are so hot they scorch the ink right off the page. These are the times when you fight the ache in the pit of your stomach and ignore the chaos in your mind. You can't eat on days like this, nor do you have any inclination to. Everything around you is blurry and out of focus. You exist, but only as a representation of yourself.
My most intuitive friends recognize them and honor the distance I require. One's eyes and gaze can always tell you just how far they have retreated into their thoughts. You are here and not here all at the same time. You know you have to get the words out so you can swallow again and snap back to reality; thus, you type as quickly and ferociously as you can for relief, but really for something greater. I cannot describe the urge that wells up inside of you, shaking your core and dominating your best intentions and actions.
But, when at last you succumb and give in to it, the words pour and flow out....page upon page.....It releases its hold on you, and as it empties out you can breathe and process and come to. When you can write no more, you are free until the next time it overwhelms and consumes you again. And, when you are free, you are left empty, drained with eyes swollen and red, with no recollection of time lapsed. The eruption of my heart, mind and soul is spent.
These are the days I write the best, the purest and most meaningful. These are the days I need a few days to recover from. At the end, I am left emotionally exhausted sitting, staring off into nothing. There is a tree outside my balcony with a crooked leaf that I could perfectly create from photographic memory that I fixate on after days like this.
"Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead."
—James Joyce, letter to Henrik Ibsen, 1901.
Comments
Post a Comment