30th October, 2015

One thing I mustn’t forget, is that writers are people too.

People with blood and sinew and muscles that get tired. Only difference between them and anyone else, would be the bombardment of words within their skulls, that demand release, a breath of fresh air, refuge on a piece of paper.

Knock, knock, knock within their skull, let me out, let me out…

Here’s a thought, here are the words to put them down in, but I’ve been writing for what seems like hours, and still no refuge in sight. My hand hurts, my back hurts, my eyes are watering, and it has little to do with my limbic system. I’ve scratched out the last two sentences four times, and I’m slowly losing the ability to draw a straight line. This pen I’m holding, it’s my favourite – I usually hold it like my mother’s finger, like a lover’s hair, like a friend – but right now it’s less “holding”, more “trying”.

But, where do I put down these thoughts, then?

Knock, knock, knock…

Ink blots, ink blots, coffee stains, oh wait, I’m a tea person, ink blot, never mind, I was about to scratch that out anyway. I can’t understand my own handwriting. That doesn’t seem to make any sense. Nothing seems to make any sense.

Knock, knock, knocked me down…

My head hits the journal, and I’m not quite sure how it got there. The last thing I remember before passing out is a faint smell of ink, and my first memories of holding my mother’s finger, my lover’s hair, my friend, and realizing how I’d never want to let go…

Knock, knock, knock….