It’s 2 am. I have been tossing and turning for about 2 hours now. Words have been running around in my head like the thought of a lover does. I’m up now, frustrated and angered by my own emotions. It feels as if these words are screaming at me, chasing my calm with a knife in their hand, asking for their immortality. I pull the drawer of the table beside my bed and pull out a sheet, and hurriedly look for something to write with.
2 minutes later, I find myself scribbling down words faster than the speed of light. Darkness continues to engulf my room because my hands are so rushed to put down the thoughts in my head on the paper that the action switching on the light doesn’t even knock on the door of my head.
When I’m finally done after 30 minutes, I have a poem in front of me, made out of messy thoughts and dirty scribbling on a used sheet of paper.
It was this moment, when I had realized that this was me. This was who I was supposed to be and I was supposed to be doing; a madwoman dancing on the winds with her thoughts in the dark and lonely of the night.
This is how writing is supposed to make you feel I guess; scared, frenzied and agonized until you breathe immortality into the words in your head. It’s not supposed to be forced, it should come to you like a wave rushing to kiss the shore, it should shake your insides so intensely that it would snap you out of your current state.
At least, that’s how it has always been for me. There are parts of me which drown themselves along with my emotions when words call out to me. It leads me to a transformation; into a madwoman walking with closed eyes on a rope to my calling.