Compulsion

There is a feeling that I don’t have a word for, which I suspect might be because there probably isn’t one for it. If I were to describe it, I would begin where it begins – in the chest at the solar plexus. It has connotations of urgency, it makes my fingers itch – crave the keyboard and a blank page. This feeling will haunt me until I have filled that blankness with words, but not just any words. If you picture for a moment a rainy autumn day, a room that’s poorly lit, cold air leaking inside through a window that’s slightly ajar, and the low-pitched roar of rain – I’d say you’re getting closer to what I’m feeling. This emotion is the one emotion I cannot ignore, because it makes my thoughts crawl along the length of my arms across my skin – like goose bumps pouring out of my fingers.

The words that appear on the page form an incandescent blur that I cannot really see. My eyes are stuck peering inward as they somehow just defocus. It brews inside my chest, this feeling, until it becomes a storm I have no choice but to brave. It is manic, insanity, and I dive head-first into it armed with nothing but inadequate words. I always stumble until I reach the harbour I always end up at, the one at the very core of what makes me who I am. Docked there, I watch as it rages through me. I observe from the inner eye of this storm. At this point my fingers tremble, but calm settles my mind.

For as long as I can remember I have waged a war against this emotion, fought the same fight time and again. It can be triggered by the simplest of things. I do not know why, but I do know that this intense need to introspect and search my soul is never going to go away. So perhaps it is not strange that I go a little crazy in my search for higher meaning, deeper purpose, in everything I do.

It has taken me a long time to build this harbour where I am currently anchored. However, now that I stare at the raging sea inside of my chest I begin to feel that I no longer need it. It’s not that I am confident in my ability to swim, but rather that I no longer fear the water – or the depths into which I might sink.

Sometimes I write because I have no other choice. I have no other choice, but even if I did, I am too hooked on this feeling to ever let it go. I am too committed to this war of mine to ever stop.

Even if it ends as abruptly as it began… 18 minutes later.