On writing when fired up

Sometimes there is a fire in my belly that burns from the base of my spine all the way up to my shoulderblades and rockets razorquick down my arms into my hands and bounces off the tips of my fingers with mute burning ricochets

It is WRITING

Sometimes and it is very rare these days since writing became bread and butter not art not introspection not therapy save four or five times a year in my cups in my house on my own and a big white wordpad document is filled up with my madness and fear like dishwater poured into a clean pintglass

It is CREATION

It sparks whatever whirring cogs power this thing that carries around my doubting consciousness and with great gouts of steam I create, I uncover, I scatter words like seeds and see what grows and it it wonderful, joyous, liberating, like freerunning must feel (if you are good at freerunning which I am not I tried it once and while jumping over walls is intrinsically fun attaining the level of fitness required to achieve that admittedly limited goal with regularity isn’t)

It is LOVE

It is intoxicating spiralling wonderful and always derivative and that is fine, only Gods and Magicians can create a Thing without tools

It is freedom and power to create and combine and modify and take everything I am and everything I’ve read and seen and played and every person I’ve met, each fascinating locked-off multi-layered diamondboxed person, and make something new of it

It is EXHIBITIONISM

I am writing to be read, because otherwise what is the point I might as well just say the words aloud to myself like normal as I walk around my flat and coffee two wears off and I see the afternoon stretch its arms out and settle malevolently into place

I want to be loved, to be wanted, to be respected and idolised and don’t we all want that, don’t we all want to be assured that what we are doing is GOOD and RIGHT and our decisions though clouded with fear and confusion and cheap red wine brought from Sainsbury’s on the way here, that our decisions are VALID, that is why we write and build bridges and plant trees and talk to each other and fuck and wear shirts with collars on

It is THE REASON

In this mode it is who I am as I take a sledgehammer to the panels on the walls and pull at the bent metal and RIP, and with bloodied fingers expose the machinery behind everything and throw spanners in there and grab at the shuddering works with slick hands grab at the springs and belts and flywheels and twist them into something beautiful for everyone to see

I am a WRITER and it is as concrete and heavybone a part of me as the buzzing nerves fizzing through my body, the bursts of chemical feedback in my brain, my heart’s heavy beat, my bad right knee and my slightly better but still objectively bad left knee, the scar on my thumb and gap where there should be a scar slightly higher up but instead vestigial regeneration at the tips of my fingers has left me with a smooth divot barely noticeable where I cut off the tip with a knife in a panic and bound it back up with paper towels and a washing up glove, hot blood soaking through and running down my arm

It is TANGENTS

I make no apology for those, all of everything is tangents depending on where you stand to look

It is COALESCING

And in the mess of blood and passion and love and fire that makes my wrists tingle and heart sing at its very approach is the beatific realisation that I am here, I exist, I am real, I am distorting and breaking and shaping the world around me and I am no longer just upright and talking in useless mouthfarting drivel or scoring out prepackaged responses to stimuli, I am a WORD-FORGE and I can revel in that phrase unironically

And this fire will die so I must use it to burn words into the world while I can