My insomnia has found me, has slithered 7,000 miles, tracking me, stalking me, passing through the eucalyptus farms and the fortress of mountains I have immersed myself in, sneaking through my yellow gate doors, and has wrapped its coils around me. I knew it would. It is as lonely as I and cannot stay away…
I lie under the mosquito net, frantically trying to find the words that will transform it into some beautiful metaphor. Hmm. It engulfs me like a giant cobweb, preventing Morpheus from entering and granting me sleep. It glows like a ghost, haunting my bedposts.
But I have a weapon. This beautiful silver device beckons me to unleash its powers. At last an instrument rises above its ugly, clunky, infuriatingly fickle brothers! Finally a piece of technology elegant and dependable enough to join the ranks of history’s great writing implements – the mighty goose feather quill, the wordsmith’s tool of choice for 1,000 years, the sleek Parker 45 fountain pen, the humble, yellow Dixon #2, and all of the wonderfully noisy machines that finally mated pen and paper – Remington, Underwood, Hermes. One needs a romantic tool to create beauty.
The cursed cursor slyly winks at me, knowing I am its willing slave. The prose flows like water through a hose, but only when it so desires. It is a wild animal, and only a fool tries to tame it. One must simply be ready for it, listen to it, respect it, and when it comes, wield it, harness it, direct it like a powerful stream of water. One must unscramble it like a coded message.
The words, dressed in their best morphology, their cadence crying out desperately for recognition, coquettishly dance across the screen, trying to seduce the reader, vainly hoping to be admired.
The words are just bricks on their own, but the writer is an architect, searching for the perfect combination to create something magical. These words, when carefully chosen, when arranged in just the right order, have the power to conjure laughter, tears, fury, or love. They can change history. They can topple governments, end wars, and start revolutions.
I love it when they come, hate it when they don’t. They have the power to give me everything I desire, or to withhold it. They usually come at night, the playground of passion, the habitation of inspiration, the writer’s Eden. They haunt me like demons.
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