On writing...

Papers lie scattered all across the table. Notes scribbled in blue, black and pink on sheets lined and unlined. A bottle of water, a take-out cup of coffee, a porcelain cup of chai teeter on the edges of books.

I sit down and read. I stand up and pace. I sit back down to write. I stand up again.

Time has no meaning. I can't feel the seconds go by. Nor the minutes, nor the hours.

I am hot and then cold and then hot again. The sweater comes on and off every hour. I want my hair tied back, I want it piled on my head, I want it hanging to my shoulders.

Everything is hazy except the words on the screen. The blank white space filling with words. Words arranged a certain way, words that say a specific thing. Voices of people I've talked to jostle for space in my head. Their words are wild, unmanageable. I need to restrain them and force them onto the white space. I can't sleep till there's no more words left to say what I need to say.

I love it. The total absorption of creating. The hot and the cold, the coffee and tea, the restlessness and ensuing calm.

The day floated by in a state of semi-consciousness. I am spent. Now, I can sleep.