Write, they say, and the letters will begin to flow through your fingers.
I've been staring at the blank page in front of me for months now, imagining word monsters lurching towards me if what I write doesn't feed their appetite. My thoughts constantly race one another yet the finishing line hasn't even been determined yet. It is a road half-walked, a road half-finished, a road that is yet to be taken.
Someone walks into the room and passes behind my laptop screen. My fingers stop typing, the voices in my head screaming that someone will read my writing and invade my mind. So, someone is reading this now and that's fine too. I've spent far too much time locked away in my head, in my maze of cloudy thoughts, contemplating what to write, where to write, which pen to hold, which notebook to use, where to sit, who it'll be written for, for what purpose, who will read it, why'll they'll want to read it.
I have never placed a full stop more whole-heartedly than just now.
Writing and living seem like two distinct worlds; one a more physical experience, the other a blurry performance of detached words in my head. And I, run around with a basket chasing after them. Catching them and sorting them out is taking longer than assembling an IKEA item alone. Constantly torn between feeling like a lover of the word and finding my own that are satisfactory to what I feel. A push and pull factor that I've welcomed a little bit too easily, became attached to and unaware of how to let it go. Common between the confused generation of the 20-something year olds, blinded by choice and paused by indecisiveness, we've become masters of looping.
No one can run around in circles as well as we do and as it turns out we are pretty damn proud of it. When life gives us lemons, we roll them on the kitchen table for a good ten years whilst trying to decide which knife to half them with, before we make juice out of them. We didn't imagine them to be so stiff, so lumpy and some don't seem to even have the right colour. Waiting for the perfect lemon to find us whilst settling for the sour flavour is slowly dissolving our taste buds. Thus, putting all lemonade expectations aside, here begins a freshly-made batch, with no recipe, just a mere direction, spices and a pot of hope and luck.
Rolling in process.