My fingers fly back and forth over the keyboard, performing a dance that has been choreographed by the thoughts in my head. They pause every now and then as my mind struggles to find just the right word or phrase. My fingers move, then pause; they stretch, caressing the keys, trying to decide which one is next. Again and again, they move and pause, finally stopping. My gaze rests on the keyboard while my mind races, chasing a thought, trying to harness an idea. My eyes dart up to the screen; the letters come into focus as words and phrases, sentences and paragraphs. Once again, almost of their own volition, my fingers begin to move quickly, taking up their dance, tapping out a rhythm of their own making; again, my thoughts appear on the screen in rapid succession.
I sit in a café, a journal open in front of me. My pen etches ink across the grain of a blank page. Almost of their own accord, words appear; one page becomes two, three, more. Suddenly, my pen loses all its drive and energy; it collapses, spent, on the table. My eyes focus on the words my pen has imprinted on the paper. My pen hasn’t held back, it tells the truth, I’m not sure if I am the master of the pen, or if it is the master of me. I am weary with the weight of the words my pen has written, I am spent with the emotion it has held, but I am energized by the act of writing, I am buoyed with the pages I have filled.