My pen has been scraping across paper for the last 4 to 5 days. There’s nothing more glorious than when you break through a block and you can watch the words pour out of your fingertips.
Maybe its the season? Every autumn I reminisce and reevaluate. Something about leaves falling, wood smoke, and chilly nights just does it for me. My journal, gifted to me by a friend, has lost at least 20 pages. Sitting by the fire, just emptying my mind as the smoke curls up into the night air. Whether its a hot cup of coffee with cream, or a cold beer, I’m there.. writing.
On the off chance that rain is falling from the sky, I’ve found myself laying on the cold kitchen floor. The tinny sound of the rain coming through the windows and the snores of my child, finds me on my stomach with my coffee and stack of books. It’s a habit from my younger years, the cold tile, the hot coffee, and my journals, sketch book and scraps I’ve written on spread around me. It’s simular to the chaos of my thoughts, beating against my brain to layout on paper.
It doesn’t matter where the thoughts turn. I write everything. Sometimes I’ll use a separate journal to put the more chaotic words. The raw emotion that seems to come out of nowhere, splashes across the pages. I don’t know where it comes from, but suddenly I’m drowning in it. Desperation, loneliness, emotional pain and fear. Love, gratitude, hope, appreciation. It just comes, and the only way it will leave is through my fingers.
So the words have been coming, I hope they keep on burning thier way out. Its the best physical sensation to just pour out my mind.. and know theres that much more.