Writing, for me, is a purging procedure. I binge on thoughts and emotions over the course of a few days or weeks, and then I bend over and vomit the contents of my bursting head onto a page. I gather up all the morsels that churn inside me and pour them out into some semblance of order. The whole thing brings with it a high to rival all others. When I’m done I feel a sense of release, of lightness, of peace even. It is serene.

The feeling lasts about an hour, maybe two, and then the build up slowly begins anew. I know I’ll have to do it again, soon, to relieve the mounting pressure inside me.

Often the process is painless. The words rush out of me like water and it’s all I can do to keep up with them. Sometimes though it’s laborious and slow. I choke and splutter over each chunky syllable and afterwards I am more exhausted than anything else, left with a bad taste in my mouth. 

Whichever way it goes it’s a necessary act. If I kept everything inside it would rot and poison me. Better to have it out, neat or not, than to drown in it.


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