ink to pen to paper

i.

1.

Whenever I sit down to write, be it for academic purposes or for personal, the beginning is always the most difficult part (although in academic writing there are other difficult parts). Another part that is difficult is trying to come up with an idea you like enough to stick with. Or developing a tone that is reflective of the message behind the piece, having a message behind the piece, having the message of the piece be detectable, or having it not being as detectable, and etc. All in all, creating quality pieces is hella hard and I applaud those who can make it work without having an aneurysm, or y'know having emotional breakdowns, mental breakdowns, all the frickin' breakdowns between the paragraphs you write.

2.

chair, notebook (or laptop), pen (or typing), sitting, staring, waiting, mind blank, then we start with an idea, then two, three, four, so on and so forth until they're practically bursting through the containment of your head, they're jumbled, they're shifting, twisting, contorting, fighting one another to be the one to spill out onto the page, then we start the trials, one shot down, and another, and another, until we're left with the lucky one, "ok, how do i start?", minutes pass, EUREKA!, hours pass, "ok, what next?", years pass, "evil: to be or not to be? that is the question.", centuries pass, "ok, how do i end this?", freakin' eOnS pass, we finally finish, we're perspiring, fingers trembling, brain is overheated, drained, mentally exhausted, tuckered, we close the notebook, return the pen, we stand up and stretch, and we wait to do it all over again.

3.

The Battle Within (scenario 1)

She mused, "where do I start?"

They whispered, "Start with what you do not speak about."

She said, "No, people will judge."

They said, "Start with the thoughts that creep out from the dark, cobwebbed corners."

She said, "No, people will be repulsed."

They asserted, "Start with the hurt, the pain, the darkness, the cracked bits."

She said, "No, people will not understand."

They screamed, "That's what makes you tick. Pain is what you are comprised of. It's the hurt that made you the way you are now. It's the darkness that forces you to get up in the mornings, so you can make your escape. It's the cracked bits that force you to be better, so you can repair yourself. It's the reason why you drive yourself to exhaustion."

She started to say, "N–"

But, they took over and wrote exactly what made her tick. They wrote about her past, her present, her scars, the words getting darker and darker, her fingers darting furiously across the board. They tore into her heart, delved deep into her soul, mixing ink with her bloodstream so that writing became her lifeline, her salvation.

They wrote and wrote until the darkness was vanquished.

And when she took control again, she read what they had written, and realized that beautiful things come from tragically diseased and broken minds.

4.

The Battle Within (scenario 2)

Minutes ticked past, but it seemed like hours in her head. With thoughts so jumbled up, they confused her instead. Thoughts of all ages and variances crept up, from the dark corners in her mind. Some lept out of filing cabinets, others rose from the depths of Tartarus, but they all dusted themselves off and joined into the fight. They got into stance, left leg one step forward and a half-step left, right leg one step backward and a half-step right, fists up and below the cheekbones, elbows tucked in and protecting the ribs. They eyed each other wearily, glancing left and right, analyzing stature, predicting movements, and then they were off. Fists flying into kizami tsukis (jabs), kagi tsukis (hooks), ura tsukis (uppercuts), and undercuts. Legs flying into mawashi geris (roundhouses), mae geris (front kicks), yoko geris (sidekicks), oshiro geris (back kicks), and hiza geris (knee attacks). A few of the ideas were struck down and the remaining ones threw one another, grappled, arm barred, leg barred, pinned, and choked until there was only one remaining. It rose to its feet, tattered, bloody, and bruised. It staggered before leaping out of her cerebral network and onto the page before her. And then she was off. She wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more, the idea quivering as she got closer and closer to the end. She wrote in the final word and the idea faded away, leaving only a memory in its wake and no trace of the battle that took place; a grand, soft death fit for a tainted warrior.