A/N: I know ti sis a weird story but this is how my writer's block looks like! I have so much I have to say but can't get it out so naturally I write about it… how cliche! So after I was done, I realized my beloved Jack probably feels the same, though his 'uncapturable' are about something else entirely ;D
So let me know what you think. Hope it's not completely wacko but it just poured out of me!
Like every night, he wakes up with a start. He's sweating and doesn't know what his dream was about. He knows there's no going back to sleep though.
So, like every night, he goes to the kitchen. Like every night he fixes himself a cup of coffee. And like every night he sit on the porch; pen in hand, notebook on lap.
And his pen just starts to dance on paper without the consent of any of his body parts. It just dances:
There's so much inside with nowhere to go. It's raging within like a fire, like a storm. It needs to escape in order to let me live. Yet it's held captive, don't know why I won't give. It's climbing up, forming a bile in the pit of my throat. It's threatening to explode, yet promising to remain within. I'm helpless, I just need out. I don't know what it is, yet it's stronger than the force of life. I don't know what's stopping me, yet I wouldn't let it go. It's there I'm sure, yet I can't catch it. It's hidden but clear though I can't capture it.
I'm at loss. Loss of words, loss of meaning. I can't explain and so I'm bleeding. It's seeping out of me, painfully and without identity. It wouldn't end. It wouldn't stop. It's flowing yet not giving any part of it away. It's a riddle unbeknownst to it's teller. It's a secret, hellbent on staying in the dark cellar. So why does it threaten to escape whenever you turn your back. Why is it struggling with no intention of getting out. It's ambivalent, without a cause. It's hesitant but yet it knows. It knows how you're feeling, but still it won't relieve you. It's killing you but wouldn't leave you. Maybe it doesn't know itself but then who does? It's bohemian but indigenous at the same time. It has no shape yet shapes all your life. It's there on the end of your tongue. It's ready-you think- you'll finally get it right. But then it goes back in and you sense that all too familiar sense of speechlessness. It's locked inside and raging all the while. Will it ever end? Will it come out? Someday you'll describe it, you'll finally figure it out.
Someday soon the epiphany shall come.