Words live inside me. In my chest. They bounce around like pinballs; vaulting off my heart and springing against my ribcage. I can’t sleep with them pushing, shoving and pulsating. They tear at me and eat away the fleshy parts of my lungs leaving me breathless. They bore into my heart and cause palpitations. They test the integrity of my diaphragm, leaning into it until my stomach cries foul and heartburn rears its ugly head.
I can’t really blame them, these words. They are looking for order in a chaotic world. They want to find their way out. They want to have meaning. And they want to be heard. That is why I write.
You see, writing has a magnetic pull. Words are automatically drawn by this mystical force. Pen in hand these words line up neatly along my arm and march out on to the page.
And then they are free. And I am free. And we both can rest.