Writing is not a race, but it sure can feel like one…

22 - Writing is not a race but it sure can feel like one
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I scribble away on the pages of an overstuffed notebook, desperately trying to get my thoughts down onto paper before they scatter away in all directions like a disturbed ants’ nest.

It holds me together.

Writing, I mean.

When the fibrous network keeping my mind in place starts to unravel, I quickly grab a pen (usually a temperamental one barely worth keeping in my pen jar) and pin down the words into my ubiquitous notebook. If I run out of paper, then I write on my hands and up my arms, all those beautiful words creeping over my body.

Dalliance. Evanescent. Fugacious.

I did that a lot when I was in school; I’d use gel-pens to draw filigree patterns and write strange words all the way up to my elbows. Anyway, I chase after that train of thought even as it flees. Each word that I add, every thought that I can get down on paper brings the train back into sight. As word builds upon word and sentences begin to emerge from the rubble, I can see the train slowing down until it’s almost within reach.

I scramble to catch up with it.

My handwriting starts getting bigger and more widely spaced in my rush to capture those wonderful words. The tiny muscles deep within the palm of my hand are starting to ache. Still I work through the pain and chaos that naturally comes with the chase, spilling words around me until they stain my skin like spilled ink, the meaning of each word soaking deep into my being.

Ineffable. Mellifluous. Opulent.

I become a patchwork of language, draped in different stories and ideas. It’s all part of this relentless pursuit. That elusive train of thought slows down again; the closer I get the clearer it becomes as it prepares for its final stop.

A full stop.

That’s what ends it all as quickly as it had begun; a simple punctuation mark no larger than a dot of ink. My thoughts are now locked firmly in place. The train’s brakes keep it from racing away again into the unknown regions of my mind. I’m a tapestry of words now, and I find myself wondering if anyone else can see those words written beneath the words from last time, and the time before.

Palimpsest. Serendipity. Anfractuous.

There is so much beauty in language.

I close my notebook, pressing down on the cover so that the freshly written words can’t escape. They’re safely locked away now. Once again I settle down into the peace and quiet of mental stasis, and prepare for the next surge of creativity.

~ Ekaterina

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