I need...
I need something. I need to write. Do I have anything to say? Always. That is not the question.
Do I have anything meaningful to say? Perhaps. But then again who knows.
Let me try to describe what this feels like for all of you that have no clue as to what I am trying to get across.
There is something at the back of my mind. A need. I can't define it. Some might call it the writing bug, but that is too trite and trivial a description.
It is madness, a haunting, a need, a pressure, even a slight pain. It is constantly yearning for me to write. Express my thoughts. It is a dormant parasite, but not quite dormant, it comes to life every now and then and claws at the wall of reality, begging to be freed.
Am I insane. Quite possibly. But still it hungers on....
Would you like this in logical terms? Fine......
I need to write. I need to write something moving, something meaningful, something powerful, more than I need to breath right now. This is the second day that this force has attacked me and I am helpless in it's grip. It is suffocating and empowering at the same time. I hate it more than anything, but I love it so. I don't want it too leave me, but I beg for it to be gone.
I know what you are thinking. Why am I not writing something creative? Why am I writing in my journal. The glorious and horrible thing about this feeling is that I need to write so badly that it is consuming my thoughts and attacking my senses, however I have nothing to write. I have no topic, no question that must be answered, no pressing issue that I can write about.
What can I ever write about that would fill this void in my mind? Though it is far from a void. It is like a sweet and enticing monster.
With every word that I type now, the pressure grows. The need becomes necessity, and I am caught between wanting to write so badly that it hurts me mentally and not having anything worth while to express.
Therefore I write about the need. I write about the monster that I am completely frightened by but at the same time, completely in awe of.
How can something so beautiful be so terrible?
The monster is a constant at the back of my mind, and sometimes it awakens and takes hold of me, whispering it's sweet nothing's in my ear....
Write....it says, write something original, write something romantic, write something that will change the world. You can do it, you have it in you to do it. JUST WRITE!!!
I CAN'T!!! I can't write about nothing. Nothing could do justice to this misery and delight that I am experiencing. I am begging it to leave me and reaching out for it at the same time.
Something, someone, tell me what to write and I will write it. I will write something to the likes of which you have never seen before.
How this scares me.. I don't know where the thoughts are coming from. I type faster, I think faster, and I can't get it out fast enough. This monster is growing more powerful day by day, and I fear that it will not lay dormant for much longer. How could I possible live with it awake? How could I control anything or have a coherent thought with this constant mantra screaming threw my mind......
WRITE, WRITE, WRITE.......
Perhaps I am going insane. Perhaps that is what this is. This need, this hunger, this feeling is just my mental reality breaking down.
However I know that it is more than that. God, I am typing so fast, and I am spelling better than ever before. My thoughts are in disarray, chaotic at best, but somehow they pour out of me with no effort.
What can I do? I would imagine that there is no way you could possible understand what I am feeling. This is neither normal, nor common, if anyone else had this feeling, this monster growing inside of them, there is no way that they could live there day to day life.
Don't you see how unimportant that all is. Your 9-5 job, with your beat up car, your bills, and your petty entertainment. Don't you see that there is an entire world of possibility in front of you. A realm of thinking that you could never conceive. A logic which is and always will be beyond you. You could not even guess the things that are going threw my mind right now. The speed defies nature, the intensity is enough for spontaneous combustion. And yet I write on. I write on because what else is there to do. What else could I even think about besides getting this thing out of my head.
I try to fool myself into believing that if I write enough, that this feeling will leave me, but usually only time lulls the beast to sleep. My worst fear is that as my knowledge grows, this monster will rear it's ugly head more and more until I will never live a second without it. Without the thought...WRITE!
........
wow.
I have never written down my thoughts on what I call the monster. I bottle them up and write about something irrelevant. I am coming back down to Earth now. He is falling asleep again. After one of these experiences, I am drained, left shaken and so scared. Scared that he will return, and scared that he won't. How can this be? How can I be attacked by a need so strong that it hurts, but not know it's name or it's reasoning?
I would compare this feeling that washes over me (or rather grabs me by the throat) to some amazing drug. Not any drug that I have ever come into contact with. Something much more powerful, much more potent, much more dangerous. It feels as though I am coming down now, as when you experiment drugs, eventually you come down. The speed and intensity has left me, and I now am writing under my own control. All the thoughts that I expressed were coming out of me unknown. I know I wrote quite a bit, but honestly I have no idea what I wrote. I can't wait to read over it. Isn't that terrifying? It is being possessed.
This was by far, the hardest this has ever hit me. Perhaps it was because I was writing about it. Giving the beast a name so to speak. I hope that was the reason, because it is mortifying not being able to control the flow of thoughts and ideas that are coming out of you. That was not me writing earlier. It was something else. Someone else. Him.
How I wish I could describe this to you all, or you could feel it for yourselves. Perhaps if I were a better writer, although, to think about that. I don't think that the greatest writer in the world could help you understand this. It is simply unimaginable. | 