There were days when this was my refuge. I couldn’t wait to pop open this document and run my fingers across the keyboard, to let everything exhale on the clean word document, peppering it with mismatched words and the gullible thoughts not too many people could understand. It was a safe haven, a place where I thought I belonged, and for a while all the flooding appreciation from the limited trustees meant the world to me. I would rush through the chores every day, my mind swirling with thoughts that I could not wait to pen down, the anticipation usually too much to handle that I started stealing moments, minutes and even dared to go as long as half hours, to scribble down on pieces of paper or on the notepad on my phone, the thoughts that never stopped spiraling around my head, impatient to seep out through my hands.
It’s still the same with the thoughts, they never stop coming and spiral round and round in my head, only to find a dead end, and spiral back up again to some unknown corner, some lost forever, others occasionally showing their traces at odd times. But they never stopped showing up, the new ones, the old and some I had no idea what they were. I had had so many thoughts that there were times when I couldn’t qualify which one was a memory or just a mere thought, and while I had blocked them from seeping out, I felt drowned in them, their weight in my head was like lead and when too many thoughts spiraled all at once, I felt bees buzzing in my head – and it drove me crazy.
I miss it. I miss writing. I miss enjoying the taste of all those words before they appear on the screen. I miss the voices of characters ringing in my ears before they were put down to be in print forever. I miss the actions that I conjured up right in front of me, and it felt as if I was watching a movie, not actually writing it. It miss how it flowed so smoothly, and more often than not, was little less than perfect. I liked to read them once done, tried to look at them through a first time reader’s eye, tried to enjoy it as I would other people’s books. I miss the little accomplishments and the anticipation to begin a new story, a new journey.
Now there are days when I have nothing to do, and I have in the back of my mind those unfinished stories gnawing at me, while new ones try to take their place, I have the approach and the means to pen them down like I used to, but I can’t. It seems like I have lost my safe haven, and even though it is always there, I am scared to approach it, I am scared to let the words seep out of me like they used to, as if I am scared to let go of something precious. But I am scared I might crumble under the weight of all these thoughts, if they don’t stop spiraling, or aren’t let out on time.