Later

I need to write. It can manifest itself as a physical need, much like that not necessarily for sustenance but for affection or laughter or education. It tugs at me when I'm engrossed in a book or newspaper. It taunts me when I'm engaged in something frivolous, like mindless channel-surfing or window-shopping. It nudges me like a hungry puppy, ever so gently, but with an underlying urgency. It asks, "Why do you let so many thoughts go unrecorded, unshared? Bitch, why aren't you writing in that little notepad you have in your possession specifically for the purpose of recording those fleeting thoughts that could transform themselves into a flood of written majesty?"

At times I feel burdened by the need to unburden myself through writing--for me, it's no different than a full trash can desperately needing emptying or a suitcase full of dirty clothes that need unpacking after a long journey. Sometimes I'm just full. Full to the brim. Full of shit, maybe, but full of thoughts nonetheless. And, more often than suits me, I don't empty them onto the page (or screen) before they get jumbled in with the new thoughts that join them every minute of every day. My thoughts are a giant plate of scrambled eggs in my mind, increasing in size at an alarming rate because they are not being consumed and therefore removed from the plate fast enough. They can only sit and grow cold, the steam of brilliance pouring out of them and leaving them tasteless and, eventually, moldy.

There is no plate big enough to hold them all, so many are doomed to spill over onto the tabletops of my mind, onto the floor, into doggie bags, where they are put aside so that I may consume them hungrily later.

But, really, when is later?

Posted by ayelet at February 15, 2007 11:11 AM