I'm cutting them all loose. All of it -- words in my head, crawling all over my scalp like tiny little ants gnawing at my skin. Words writhing, wriggling up and down my throat, clawing at my chest, running, leaping, dancing, a pirouette, a dip, a screech, rising, falling, crashing to and through my body. Every particle, every fragment of memory -- real or imagined, embellished truth, or visceral lies. I'm letting them go, and fuck what anyone thinks.
They will be shikigami as I walk around the city. They will be helmet and hauberk, gorget, breastplate, tasset, greaves, and sabaton. I will write when words barrel through me like ten thousand rivers. I will write when words supernova in my mind. I will write even if there is nothing to write about.
The past two months at work has taught me the world will never run out of words. A single object will have as many different words as the number of of eyes that will look upon it. Every day I work, I try on a multitude of eyes. Work has taught me there will always be something to write.
I used to be afraid of the word, "writer." I shy away from it, a burning brand to my skin. I used to feel I wasn't worthy of the pain, the burden, and the responsibility it entails to be a writer. After the fear came the shame. Then self-pity. Yet, I find myself going back -- a pitiful supplicant to an intangible divinity.
Ultimately, it's a conscious decision. The Universe is a strange and patient benefactor, and we are timid little animals who do not know how to say "Yes." That is, until we learn to say "Yes," -- and actually say it.
So, "Yes."
