The Natural Flow of a Writer

From our minds flow…

… ideas, back to back, again and again. Ideas so fleeting, so voluminous, that trying to catch them all would be futile, but still we try. Our hearts ache, watching these dreams fly by, reaching out to find nothing, constantly wondering what could have been. Finally one falls into our hands, our fingers tingle with anticipation, a purpose, a goal. Perhaps to let others know our story, or maybe just the act of recording in protest of the bitterly short time we are given, to live on past our bodies as something more. At these times anything seems possible, all roads are the ones less taken, and anything can make all the difference, so we grab our pencils…

And from our pencils flow…

… words that we never did imagine, words falling swiftly down the arm, spilling over each other to be imprinted in false timelessness. The force, staggering, the flow unending, uncontrollable, unstoppable and still, unable to quench the thirst, the thirst to go on and on, to chisel something, anything, everything onto the stone cold surface of the behemoth known as history. Horrible thirst that knows no rest, and in turns allows no rest, and the lack there of is tiring, yet to be tired is what we yearn. This tired is not something to be avoided, not a plague, instead it is like that oh so scrumptious hot apple pie doused in cold vanilla ice cream that hurts so good. The killer combo of burnt tongue and brain freeze can’t outweigh the heavenly flavor which keeps us chiseling and scratching until we feel like we can’t go on. Eyes glance at the paper...

And then from our hearts flows…

… life, pure and simple, delicate and full of potential. Spider-silk warmth spreads to every part of the body, leaving you more in tune with your stiff little toes than ever. A connection so dense, so completing that one side of your dichotomy cries “It hurts…” and the other side replies “But it was worth it”. The body and soul function as one, oozing sweet contentment, refreshing tired minds, energizing rough worn hands, filling that not-so-secret hole (at least for a while) with love, courage, pride, all that gooey shit. The behemoth spills a few drops of blood, and the idea occurs that it really wasn’t that difficult now that you’ve started, so why should you stop….

And on and on still, until….

… the page is embellished, solid blocks fall away, and from the destruction emerges a new history; a phoenix flaming verses and signed in ink, burning brightly in the darkness of history. A history reborn, telling of our epic struggle to overcome the behemoth, to create beauty from the naked rock, strife and joy and sorrow…

Suddenly an idea strikes anew …
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This is a free write piece I wrote a little while back. I miss getting the chance to just put my pencil to a page and GO with it... Hopefully after this rush of work is over, I'll be able to relax some to write again :)

Enjoy, critique, and comment!
<3
Sahil