When the ache is in your bones, you write. When it is in your eyes and your jaw and your hands rubbed raw, you write. When your very thoughts flow sluggishly, tediously, unsure of their direction- you write. When you don’t know anything in the world any more, you ask your pen or keyboard or phone screen to make sense of it for you. When you can’t sleep, or when you wake up panting at three in the morning for no reason; when your feet hurt and you have to get home so you keep going; when you’re on the highway and the sky is oh so blue- you stop, take pause, and write.
You write when the sun shines and blinds you- splattering ink on the stiff, white paper like mud splatters from the hooves of a galloping horse. You write the day you first notice the lumpy muscle beating away in your chest. You cautiously pen down its song, and then you realize you can’t stop. Then one day it shatters into little rainbows on the floor, powdered, glittery pieces reflecting into your eyes and cutting your fingers as you try to gather them together. You write. One day you remember the old song and you realize you never heard it properly and you write it again. Then, just as you’re getting confident with the composition, it strikes a chord and your organ of glass is the latest in a line of particularly deadly explosives. There is no song. Your blood finds a way to flow on its own and the air rushes past your ears and the clock ticks on and there is no song. There is only silence and a chill in the air and char marks and burnt scents from your little explosive. What do you do? You write.
Slowly, slowly, it crawls towards the hour of sunrise. And you see little golden rays striking little golden motes floating where you thought there was nothing. And there are swirls and patterns- an entire universe dancing if only you looked close enough. Hell, it’s not like you have anywhere to be. So you look. And you are lost.
And from among those swirling motes set aflame by the early morning light pouring in through broken doors and windows, the words begin to pour. The holes in the wall, the fallen beams and bricks, the shattered panes and unhinged doors are silent as the sunlight flows with the might of a thousand armoured tanks- unstoppable. The silence is golden and the dance is golden- the loss of song itself is golden. And from within that gold the words flow- a gentle river, a laughing river- a river with a resolve of steel. And I pick up my pen and I write, because god knows there is no choice. In that silent, magical, golden void, I sit and the words catch me, encircle me, hold me utterly, utterly still. I am a prisoner and they run through my pen, flowing, flowing, sometimes right to the reader’s eyes. That is why I write.