You know that feeling when inspiration hits really damn hard, but for some reason your body just doesn’t move. Instead, it seems like it’s trying to soak it up, leaving you all bothered and restless.
I dont know what it is about these sudden enthusiastic impulses. They make me feel alive, yet they make me stay rooted to the ground, forcing me to take the feeling in.
It’s weird in a way. this is what writing makes me feel like. Expressing myself in this way makes me feel free. And there’s a safe place built around the idea of a pen and a paper, or a computer where i type. There’s just a bubble where my thoughts are allowed to be as they are without them having to pretend. I dont have to be someone else when i write, though sometimes i feel like i’m not the one writing the words. in that case, im allowed to just be. be. whatever that i feel like being. Whoever.
And when my hands itch to write, i write. Oh boy do i write.
When my mind wanders, i write it down, leaving a trail where i follow as i please. And they lead me to mind adventures. Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts.
I’m reading The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. In there it said that thoughts have souls.
This book makes me want to write more and more and more. There’s an interesting desire to search for the souls of these thoughts that i recognise. The familiar feel of a thought, of a desire. And omens.
Omens. It shouldn’t be a coincedence i picked the book up. Burned me so much because of how much it relates to me. And the inspiration that came with it was so eager and alive. And so very curious. Maybe not curious. Maybe very curiously excited at the possibilities life comes up with.
And adventure sums up the whole of my restlessness.
7th February 2016