Thursday, April 1, 2010, on bus to work. Started on bus leaving school, ended minutes before shift started. Hid in mall washroom to finish before hurrying to work.
The words flit around; as ideas, as names, by themselves, strung along with some others. Buzzing around, quiet and hard to grasp when the pen is in hand, and loud and desperate when the time isn't available to grab them and force them onto the paper. They taunt and tease, calling out and staying just out of reasonable reach. They love to play this game, whether intense, romantic, needy, quiet, content, damaging; they all are masters when it comes to putting them together in the proper order on paper. There are odd ones, that can suddenly explode close by and demand to be put down, but they tend to be inconvenient, and aren't always satisfying as they say they are when they start. There are the quiet ones as well, that sit and fester for days on end, slowly growing as they wait patiently to be picked up and used.
The ones that come when you can't take the moment to write are the ones that are the most demanding, they are the same as the ones that get stopped in favour of making it to a destination, of getting that homework finished, of finally getting sleep. They all sit there and build and build so rapidly that you can't possibly remember them all. They pick and poke and yell and scream, repeating and disappearing and returning once again for the worst kind of torment. They fill your brain so that even if you whisper out loud to coax them to wait, to slow down and come back at a more convenient time, they still can't be overpowered. Fingers twitch and steps quicken to get to a place where you can spill the words out on the paper where they want, no, demand to be. Eyes skit back and forth, as if trying to watch all of the prose so it doesn't leave, and breath gets heavier, not from the faster pace but from the dread of losing what can't be caught once gone. The panic and stress and anxiety of trying to catch the words is nothing compared to the quiet mind, the one that has been ditched of all of these lovely, fleeting words. The pain that comes with the realisation that you can't have those words ever again the same as they were hurts and throbs more than anything. Anger at letting them get away, depression at being so empty and without those cruel friends that keep you living as long as they get on paper. Once they're gone the breathing is erratic and panicking again, but sobs threaten to burst out through them this time around.
The relief and sanity and ease of mind that comes with the satisfaction that they are out and there to be read is the most wonderful feeling, regardless of the down that would come if they weren't as great as they seemed; that is ignored as the peace sits for a while, the loving peace you keep to be able to sleep at night, to breath and live without the worry. The serenity is wonderful, though short lived, all a false wall that breaks down sooner than wanted, crashed by the next flurry of prose that begs to be released into the world, and is worked and worked, hope that it won't be lost, all the frenzy, just so that peace and quiet can be felt yet again.... if only for another short while.