On Writing

What is the name of this place? Does it have a name?

As I sit here, a white sheet before me and my fingers running on the keyboard like the most desperate kind of an animal, the keyboard acts as a mirror to my mind. A scanner- clearing dust from the minutest of details, I am slowly falling into this place and it’s dark here.

I am able to see myself. Not from a third person’s point of view but my own. How did I end up here? I smell fear, doubt and all the other insecurities right from the smallest thing to a life choice. It’s all in here and there’s no space.

How do I clear one knot to detangle another?

As I keep writing, I am confronted by my own emotions- the first time in the whole day, first time in the last four days, since I last wrote. Is this what happens to the writers when they don’t write?

My emotions consume me and the epiphany takes over. I need to write. I need to write.

I need to write.

I need light in this place.