‘Hands do what you’re bid; bring the balloon of the mind
That bellies and drags in the wind, into it’s narrow shed.'
I said there are no words. I lied.
There are words. There is something I need to write. It is consuming me utterly, and I cannot think of anything else I need to say. It’s there. Not the actual post, but the thoughts, the things I need to say, what I need to draw out of the tangled ball of string that my mind so often is.
It won’t come until it’s called. It needs to be summoned. And until I release it, it will just sit there, keeping my thoughts running along the same track, running the groove ever deeper, the knife slicing further and further down. Like a Method actor, I am condemned to keep reliving painful memories and knowledge.
So why haven’t I let it go yet? Because I can’t. Because I know it will be a painful thing to write, possibly one of the most painful. Knowing what I know hurts. Thinking about it hurts. Writing about it will hurt. But having written it will stop the pain.
So just write it. Draw the infection out. Heal the wound. But I can’t. Because writing comes from inside. And until I can be alone, I can’t open the door of that narrow shed.