Writing is like giving birth.
There is a seed of experience that wedges its way into the cracks of consciousness.
Preoccupations till this seeded soil, reflection germinates until it begins growing larger and larger
Taking form, kicking, pushing, squirming inside
Until the contractions begin
Nausea is apart of the process, and the constant urge to vomit these ideas and feelings stimulate the gag reflex
But it’s only until the cramping contractions begin does the full enormity take shape of what’s inside
The body relents, and the mind surrenders
You place your pen to the paper, or you document it digitally by tapping the tops of the crannied keys, and words give rise to a life of ideas
For minutes or hours, until the mass of it is outside you, and the contractions cease
And what was birthed and born before you is either an ugly offspring, or a beautiful babe.
Either way it is yours.