Mind going crazy. Million different directions. Six notebooks circle me. I’m hungry. The words can’t come fast enough. Obsessive, frantic scrawling, then I flip the page or swap the journal.
A wish to fly. A hope to nurture.
Doubt and self-sabotage are shelved, though calling out the way cookies do after the house has fallen quiet.
The right music. The chosen journal. A thirst. A fear. A thousand. A battle of fiction and reality.
The more words that flow the further I get. Away. Nowhere. Anywhere.
When the pen is in motion, the worry, the doubt, the mocking of silence falls away. A cherished moment. The ink is dry. The words gone, served their purpose. The rest only lasts seconds till it begins to fade.