Tap, tap, tapping. This need never stops rapping. It’s incessant beat taps within the confines of my head, reverberating its call against the unified prison of my skull.
It’s been 19 days since I’ve last worked on an extended piece of fiction. It’s like a recovering addict’s confession. I need to start writing something large, complex, and beautiful soon. Otherwise, a type of madness will start to slip in, dark and viscous, into my veins and my soul will lose its grip in the unhealthy sludge of unwritten prose and unexpressed ideas.
It is the writer’s curse. The need to throw my voice into the wind and see where it lands among sand, brambles or fertile soil. It matters not, it is the impulse of the throwing. Like a tree full of seedlings, obeying only the genetic code written in its branches to unleash its prodigy into the wind.
It’s the writer’s curse. I embrace my genetic disposition, with all its accompanying ailments. It is who I am. Tapping, rapping, aching, and all.