Have you ever had that feeling that there were words inside of you that wanted to come out but you didn’t know what needed to be said? Have you ever felt like there was some feeling or emotion growing but you couldn’t put your finger on what it was?
I rarely sit down with the express purpose of writing. When I sit down to write it’s because I have something that needs to come out, a feeling that needs to be purged. I can actually feel it growing inside of me. My hand aches to hold a pen and paper when that happens. I am having one of those moments right now.
I can hear words in my head as they try to form themselves into lines of a new poem, but they are like mismatched pieces of different jigsaw puzzles. One puzzle is the crappy way a friend (my son’s babysitter) got pissed at someone else but took it out on me over the phone today by screaming and cursing at me while I was at work. Another puzzle is the friend that I’m pretty sure I pushed away just because I am a scared, stupid little girl. Another puzzle is that I am attracted to that friend and long to be more than his friend. There is so many puzzle pieces on the table. There are not enough ink pens and notebooks in the world right now to put all the puzzles together.
This is the kind of night that leaves me with insomnia as the words swirl around and try to come together. Writing is my outlet. Writing is my punching bag, my hike through the woods, my temper tantrum, my voice when I’m voiceless. But what happens when the words get stuck like a literary rush hour on the highway? They all want out NOW with no rhyme or reason. When that happens it makes me feel like I am going crazy. My brain won’t stop churning and I can’t distract it into thinking of something else like marshmallows or YouTube videos or constellations in the sky (Orion is my favorite in the North American winter sky). Right now I’d even settle for having some perky and annoying 80’s pop song stuck in my head. Somebody cue Katrina And The Waves-Walking On Sunshine. At least the beat and rhythm would start the literary rush hour rolling. Or, if nothing else, it would shut the words up that want to come out and put them off for another day.
Maybe it’s not writing that needs to be done. Writing is my personal coping mechanism. Maybe I need to confront the babysitter and tell her that I did not appreciate her treating me crap this afternoon. Maybe I need to confront my friend and apologize for being a scared, stupid little girl. Maybe after I do that then I can pull him into a kiss and see if the attraction that I have for him is reciprocated. Maybe . . . Maybe . . . Maybe not . . . Grand delusions of a shy introvert. It would be nice to be able to do all that though. But I can’t, so I will continue to write.
Tonight I will turn on 80’s pop on Spotify as I stare out my window at Orion and try to trick my brain into thinking of things other than the logjam that it is stuck on now.
Good night, fellow writers. Hopefully your literary highway is not stuck in the same rush hour as mine.
Until next time . . .
- Puzzles. (nusnusnusojo.wordpress.com)
- Mental Purge (daisybelle1313.wordpress.com)
- Read, write, reflect. (avidscribbler1.wordpress.com)
- Coping Skills. #26. Writing Poetry (annarosemeeds.wordpress.com)