Coming back from doing errands, on the road with my brother, i had to make a last stop at the bank, and i began recalling that dream, matching words and details, objects, people and feelings, i felt that urge to write, so sudden, i needed to nail that image, that emotion, carve it and give it form, erect a temple for me to be able to soak back up in it, give it a life.
I'm fumbling impatiently inside the glove box, i ask my brother, i turn his bag upside down, and the words bump around in my head, a silent litany, i must not forget, i must not lose track, and i'm panicking, smiling to that ridicule situation, that haunting impulse, and verbally pounding "i need a pen, i need a pen".
My brother releases me in front of the bank and i rush in, it's empty, i say hello quickly with glassy eyes for the clerk, and spot a pen tied to a small chain laid on a small pedestal table, that's it, i'm saved, i take five, ten minutes and scribble several lines over a random pamphlet.
Relieved i'm turning to the clerk, who appears to be a pretty middle aged woman, i ask what i was supposed to, (settling some money business between my brother and i), she starts up with a tirade to sell me some bank stuff, in the middle of her detailled speech i put up my sad look and wave my arms like scissors, saying "i'm sorry i don't understand a thing", she stops, surprised and i read a feeling of rejection on her falling cheeks, a weighty silence grows, so again i'm appologizing and let her finish, growing back comfort in our communication, even asking a practical question that she was happy to know the easy answer.
During that exchange i was thinking, i could have waved my ink filled paper and say "You know i'm more of a (crappy [useless]) poet than a (boring) technician".
That morning was kind of original, i can't supress that need to express, get things out of me and connect through the passion of my temper.
Please, let me in
I relate to this feeling, this experience you described. I used to have moments like this often, when I was out in public, especially on the trains, I used to scramble my thoughts on those yellow sticky notes. They were shaky notes all over the place, not even in one direction, all over the little square, like it was not enough space. I loved those moments, that immediate need to write down a thought and feeling. Write it because it has to be expressed, and then that tension in you goes away, it's like scratching an itch... you just have to do it or you feel everything is going wrong.
RépondreSupprimerIt is a sign of a true writer at heart, or that you are lacking someone around who could understand, so you have to resort to writing to release. I think you are a true writer. You write truth. And you write very good descriptions of your experiences, your feelings, observations. It's true, I'm not mocking you, I see the progression in your writings. You're good.
Oh! Many thanks! ... Stranger.
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