Most days I have it easy. The words, they flow. Like streams of coherence brimming with life, they flow. Gurgling over pebbles, smoothing criss-crossing over pockmarked beds, dancing over rocks, dodging every stray bough, slipping and sliding across it all to make their way out. They flow.
Some days I’m not so lucky. The words they elude me. And they hang around in a nebulous haze in my mind, refusing to be stifled, tied and tamed. Some days it really feels like there is no greater pain than a story that refuses to be penned. No bigger sorrow than words that disintegrate before I can trick them into falling into neat little rows.
Some days the words, they need coaxing. In the company of the right kind of music, they dance like children with flowers in their hair. Laughing, stumbling, with tiny, uncoordinated steps they make their way down.
I try to string them together every day. Some days I have to start. And stop. And start all over again. Several times over. Repetition, tedium and sometimes boredom become my best friends.
And some days its the loneliest thing to be doing. Writing. Just me and the ghosts of my thoughts surrounding me. Buzzing around in silence, haunting the space between us, threatening to take over my mind altogether.
When that happens, I know its time to shut the computer down and go back to writing. The way it is meant to be done.
Some days I’m lazy. So I procrastinate. And when heaps of days and weeks pass by, I feel the dead weight of wasted time, I carry around nagging reminders of unfinished business, unaccomplished goals. And I wish so bad that I could go back, turn things around and get those words to listen. To obey. To do as they’re told. As I wish. And in time.
Most days I have it easy, but some days I struggle. And then I crib a bit too. I wonder why I’ve chosen this path. Then it gets even harder, because reason begins to cloud my mind.
But when I eventually do get down to it, some times the moment creeps up on me. Its like the stars align, all the right energies converge and I hit the sweet spot. I strike and it begins to rain down on me, like the sweet elixir I’ve longed for. I want to drink it all up before it runs out.
And when that moment passes, as quickly as it arrives, I realise there’s absolutely nothing else I’d rather do than write. Even if it means I have to go through the whole cycle again.