I wrote this late at night in a couchsurfing host's kitchen last month, and just rediscovered it. Just some random ramblings and musings from my brain...
My fingers move over the keyboard, the words pouring out of my soul without needing to think. Tiredness removes the barriers in my brain – the words come with ease and without effort. I don’t know what I’m writing, what I’m saying, I just type the stream of consciousness that emanates from my brain, pausing only to question the spelling or enjoy the feeling and shape of a word as I think it up and find a place for it in my sentence. I enjoy feeling the words, of letting go and letting my creativity be free. Of not worrying about the right and wrong of everything I write, but of just writing everything that comes and worrying about editing it later. The words are delicious in my mind, and I feel them running down my arms to the tips of my fingers and through the keys, forming shapes as my fingers dance across the keyboard. I hear the rhythm of the words, the taps and clunks my fingers produce as they waltz and tango around their dance floor. Everything I write feels beautiful to me right now, inspired and effortless.
It feels like a dance when it’s this easy. I don’t pause, I just feel. Like dancing in the middle of a dance floor without worrying about how you look, my fingers dance away to the music of my soul. It’s light, like meringue; soft like clouds and candyfloss. I wish I could bottle how writing feels in these moments, so I have something to give me hope in the moments when my words and hands are heavy at the keys, when everything feels misshapen and wrong, when nothing fits. Sometimes the words are so hard to form, so hard to get out. Maybe they’re not ready for the world, or maybe my brain holds onto them too tight. Or maybe the world isn’t ready for them.
I don’t know why sometimes it’s so right and other times so wrong. Other people recognise this feeling – the artists, the musicians around me. It’s the magic and addictive feeling of inspiration. Some people devise a way to access it or tap into it, but I have yet to find a reliable entry point. All I know is that I have to run with it when the feeling comes. Drop what I’m doing, find a corner and let it roll. Sometimes I feel that I only struggle because I’m trying to write the wrong thing or at the wrong time.
I am starting to see the benefit of typing with my eyes closed. I write in the now, in the present as opposed to puzzling over the words I just wrote, getting stuck on analysing the rights and wrongs of sentences past. I smile as I write a few words, utter a phrase that pleases me, pleases my brain. I feel like I’m writing in my voice, in my own dialogue, uninfluenced by the writers I adore and immerse myself in. I’m slowly developing my own narrative personality, the same way it took a long time for my external personality to find herself and be confident in who she is, uninfluenced by the people I surrounded myself with.
So I sit here in a stranger’s kitchen in the late evening, my knees bent on an orthopaedic stool, my face warmed by a wood stove, my left ear dominated by the hum of the refrigerator and my right by the haunting sounds of a folk band. Here I sit, writing.