The world of words is a fascinating one, one I have only begun to experience in the last year. Sometimes I find it difficult to explain this place I go when I retreat into my words. I am cautious of it’s description lest I be labeled as something less than complimentary. When words start to fill me and wrap themselves around my head, they form another world, one that I see and feel. They call to a place where they become almost real and only then can I start to weave them into something that might make it to the page. These are the most difficult to write as they take time to craft and they may linger with me for some time before I can put them together.
Other times the words come in an instant, on the way to bed, out on a walk, or just sitting at a desk. They flow through me with a passion and I am compelled to put them down. Then they are gone, whispers that float away. It is those words that make me sit and wonder when I look back on them as if they were put there by a stranger.
There are times when the words leave and though I may try to make them come, they will only come when they will and not at my bidding. I’ve seen my forced efforts, the ones where I felt obligated to write and the result is scattered and lifeless.
Last night I was very tired and while I started to drift off, those words returned, the ones that linger. I felt them coming together, forming the picture I had seen but could not craft for weeks. I have not written them yet, but hope to do so tonight. They paint a memory, purely fiction, but one that feels so real I can feel the mist of the sea on my face as I write.
Many nights I wonder why the world of words found me now after years spent pursuing other things, a question that no doubt will never be answered.