Member-only story
Writing Interrupted
A poem
I was in full flow. Writing.
Firing on all cylinders.
Until I was interrupted.
I feel like something is missing. A limb or a vital organ.
It continues to amaze, this thing I do. Writing.
Far more than an urge it is a need, a drive
An addiction.
The act itself stimulates certain parts
Of my brain. Writing.
Without the physical act of putting pen to paper
Word vomiting all over the page
Without this act, this physical act, writing,
There must be an imbalance. A chemical imbalance.
It’s why, I think, I suffer
Melancholia when I finish writing
A story or a sentence. When I am
Interrupted.
Why I feel this unsettled
Oddness akin to leaving
The house on a cold, winter morning bundled
Under sweaters and scarves. Hands
Bemittened, only to look down and see
I am not wearing pants.
Bemused and confused I wander
Through my day without
An arm.
Where did it go?
Or a kidney.
Interrupted, I stumble through
Chores and meals until
At the end of the day I can once again put pen to paper
And find balance
And sleep.
