This is really supposed to be a text about finding the path again. About enlightenment, safety in thought, stillness in the storm. Instead, it’s about the empty feeling of leaving someone behind while you’re rising to your feet. It is about the silent screaming, hands shaking, as the ink spills on the paper.
I’ve heard somewhere that writing is like turning on a faucet. I’ve never understood it. If there is a faucet I’m not turning it on. I’m hitting, slamming, bashing it until my hands are raw and I’m left with no choice.
The screaming only stops when I’m out of breath with a clear mind.
“I see you’ve started to write again.”
“Good. You’ve always loved to write.”
You’ll find me chain-smoking on the balcony until I’ve got it sorted.