WRITING: Obsession

With what fever I write. An all-consuming passion that is grudgingly interrupted by my life. So much more than is put here is put into that secret place. I curse those and that which halts the flow, the bank deposits that must be made, the dated mail that must be sent, the floors that must be cleaned sporadically. Two meals a day I can go without, but dependence on me forces me to create the third; a dinner that I come to as a pig at trough. I try to plan my time, but one cannot plan around a steady stream; just build up walls to hold it in, or hold the banks back from collapsing inward. I want to think my thoughts and have them magically appear on paper or as it were, a screen. Pressing SAVE and moving onward. But stop? No, no! Not yet.