The Writer

Image credit: sqback / 123RF Stock Photo
Image credit: sqback / 123RF Stock Photo

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.

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