There is a force beyond me incomprehensibly is forcing me to move forward and I fight it none. I tread on lazily often, but not without the knowledge I am not placing all of my wits to the task, therefore, in seconds, my motive transforms. I don't know why I try too hard to find out what is the force beyond me, to see if it is godly or the latter (selfishness). I end in the same spot of miraculous joy that I never intended to feel. It guides me and tells me what to do and shows me how to write and the emotions I am familiar with, and sometimes I feel like a robot, switching electric currents into my neurons to complete a task. Afterall, aren't we all robots with fleshed out brains? Am I any different, but that is it that guides me? I contemplate prayers and contemplate faith, and know that there is a nonsense that I believe in religion that I surrender to. Yet, others tell me it's dumb or non-existent.
I don't listen to others anymore when it comes to the knowledge of this force. I just know what to do and how to write it, and here I am writing without an MFA, which usually gives the creative license of artists to write. I have nothing, and started at nothing, a blank page even, but here I am writing. Words spelling out, splurging sentences onto the page although, I never actually say anything or know what to even type until I feel the force moving through the tips of my fingers, letting catharsis release the monsters and sometimes darkness unto the vast cyberspace.
I don't know why but I want to write all the time, and I don't know if other writers feel the same. I can write for hours endlessly for a whole day and even overnight (without coffee) but the lack of sleep will probably end in drueling bliss on my computer. Sleep aside, I want to write for hours, and the adrenaline just pushes me through. I don't why, and I am not sure if there is the ghost of a dead writer inside of me or not, but I feel like a writer, but am I? Can I justifiably proclaim myself to be one when I'm just a small time writer and poet. Do I deserve to call myself a writer when I am not in The New York Times or New Yorker? Can I compare myself to those luckies?
I'm going to keep going, and still write nonsense maybe, but here is me, writing something out of nothing.