it was a regular workday morning. I was looking forward to reading some articles in this week old edition of the Saturday magazine I work at, when words burst out literally out of nowhere. On the pages. On the vast expanse of the empty page that lay before me, almost calling me to it, to fill it to the brim with words. After the scribbling a sublime satisfaction consumed me and I found myself swimming in a reverie of sentences full and complete, if not perfect. One wishes for more such mornings, and more such empty front pages that beckon one to not just read but also write on them.
Here's the transcribed text (of course, not all of it):
To be full of words, to always be bursting at the seams with things to put out in words
How does it feel to go to bed with a head full of words?
How does it feel to dream in sentences so perfect you want to write them down?
How does it feel to wake up in the eerie quiet of the wee hour and not feel thirsty for water but hungry for the urge to put words on a paper—that oldest, most ancient form of expressing and understanding oneself; that physical cliched in person deed of putting pen to paper being your biggest desire at all times possible?
What do you do when you want to feel the pen stride attentively on the paper, across the expanse of the beautiful big and small crumpled sheets of paper before you and you want to listen to those soft murmurings that take place quietly between the surface of the page and the nib of the pen?
And what do you do when you want this more than most other vitals in life—more than the touch of water on your forever parched lips, more than the warmth of your partner’s body on a night when it's snowing outside, more than the lurching sweet amorous taste of the first rays of sun on your tight gnarly small body after a night of perpetual wakefulness and November rain?
You know your love for the gab is to take you some place divine or drop you at an unknown suicide point when somethings as necessary as these faint in priority in your routine. The drawl of words on the page calling out to you from a distance, from an unknown unseen corner where the silage of resides. When you see an empty sheet of paper and all you want to do is rap the nib of your pen or pencil on it and make words peer out of yourself.
Sometimes you wonder where these words come from. This gurning, constant ache to continue to write and make things out of nowhere appear on the page before you, feels like an ultimatum life never wanted to give you but gave anyway.
The words come out of a variety of places—sometimes you tell your partner that you can feel an emotion running through your fingers, at other times you feel a engulfed by a blanket of another emotion.
And that is when you realize that you are so full of feelings, of emotions, in every pore of your being that words have no other way but to come out. Words spilled all over the visceral visage of the largest organ of your body—they are the second skin you have but you can't show. They reside in every bone, every nerve ending bookended by words not written out yet. These emotions residing in every bend, every extra or depleting ounce of flesh and that is where these words nuzzle their way out. These feelings, like sensitive vibrations, often soft echoes and tepid resonances, reverberations from a time lost, of things lost, tingles felt some time ago or things that didn't even happen, the could-have-beens, the rabble rousing never sleeping emotions, twisting and turning inside of you, the cool cameos of the departing feelings—all these and a visceral, unending scroll like variety of emotions are what compose your gab, they are what make and unmake you, they are what make you wake up with and sleep with a head full of words...
