I still haven’t found the balance between writing because I need to, and writing because I have to. I want everything to be an outpouring of the heart, to occupy my every thought. That’s not practical though, despite in the past not caring too much for practicalities. I want a story to consume me, to take me over and allow me to become it – but at a cost to my own self? It may ultimately be me who kills them, but they don’t half make it painful. And joyful. And there’s excitement and frustration and laughter and apathy and boredom and wonder. In a way, that’s what I’m afraid of opening myself up to again. I want to keep them at a distance, yet fear that will compromise what they are and who I want them to be. I know it won’t be long before they infiltrate my life again. Part of me wants that. Part of me fears it.
Writing is fire. It is a need, a necessity; there’s no choice to do without it, to drop your pen and darken your mind. Fire consumes, burns. It dances to its own tune, appears how it wants to appear, goes where it wants to go. You cannot tie a leash around it. To stare into the flames is to surrender yourself to something else – something you can’t quite comprehend. It is beauty; raw, powerful, elemental. It’s something you want to touch, want to be, but then it burns you and turns you to dust. Embers drift like a thousand ideas; only a few will spark and combust, take over, burn relentlessly. When it rains the flames will cower beneath a cloud of steam, kicking and hissing against those who try to douse it. Fire burns even when you close your eyes; you feel the heat even when you’re not close by. And when the fire does dim, does shrink to a smouldering orange glow, it will always rise again, because without it, you will freeze. Writing is fire.