Things I have witnessed and experienced emerge organically, images and thoughts scarred in my mind. I am consumed with a passion not felt at any other time.
I gawk at the world with no conscious control, making sense of things, discovering myself. I am pursued by fragments of phrases and shards of memory of scenes and places so insistent that my mind will not rest.
When I close my eyes many images compete and become superimposed. I am possessed by a great demon of restlessness driving me on and on. I am pushed all day by this compulsive force. I cover pages and pages with words that may or may not make any sense. I empty onto the pages but still I search as my memory fuses with desire and knowledge with worth. I let the cupboard at the back of my mind spill over with the words and images of my life.
I tremble as I wonder when my mind will fail, prove inadequate. The internal pressure to keep on writing sinks as heavy as a stone in the pit of my stomach; I try to fill this eternal void with my futile efforts.
Softly I close the door upon the world. I draw a long mystical bolt. There is silence. I imprison myself in writing to lift the soul and contemplate what I cannot verbally share.