Writing is like vomiting, you hold back then the words retch forth, over and over again in waves continuing while your soul hurts, finally ceasing when an uneasy truce is called.
Then, for awhile, your demons are quiet. And an uneasy peace begins. You feel normal, if not numb. The world around is comfortably distant. Voices are filtered through water, light through a glass darkly.
Then it builds, the tension rises, that twitch returns. There are plenty of sign, agitation, unease, irritable, then the light shines pushing back the haze. The mind clears and you enter a productive phase, you burn white hot. The inner reason of life unfolds before you. Then when you take a breath and survey your life, the light shows dusty corners, logic demand a scapegoat, the world starts to crack, stress fractures appear like little frosty tracks on the window in winter.
Until once again your soul bubbles and complains, once again, uncontrollably, you puke words onto paper, unable to control the flow, all you have consumed comes up, the darkness returns. You quietly wretch into your praying hands hoping no one notices the stains.
©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2013, written entirely on my iPhone.