The words coil in your mind; they billow and blossom and meander.
Ideas suggest themselves; they show themselves as reflection in the wet pools of your thoughts.
You absorb their indication as you concentrate, you look in the direction they lead your minds eye, and you start to wonder at their echoes and their strains of half recognised voices.
You follow the head paths, you wander the lines etched into your dream-scape and traverse the ideas which float like bubbles, shimmering in your subconscious.
You build a world of imaginings and impressions- abstract shimmering form perpetuates and evolves, morphs and slowly grows, racing in new directions, flying and soaring in new and more exhilarating heights- your focus swoops and soars, shooting to the depths of the heavens to find the words which work.
You sink absorbed into the process of expression; taking the waves which lap on the shores inside of you and creating tempests- walls of water and release- purifying practises of making words work for your inner senses.
Your fingers vibrate with purpose.
Your blood boils.
Writing, is pure expression. It is a release for the deepest part of you, the part which doesn’t deal in reason but only sails beneath the winds of sensation, the winds of deep, ferocious, seismic forces.
The part of you which snarls, the part of you which bites and licks at the wounds which living leaves.
The part of you which has to turn those scars to sentences; regurgitate everything and hurl it back up in true form; hurl it back up in the words which make sense to you.
Words which you have chosen, sentences you have selected.
You write. You create. You express.