As I sit ready to write, my mind begins structuring.
My mind tells me I am in control of the story I write, that I am the Goddess of this creation, and as I begin something happens.
It happens only when my heart and soul come into play. Every so often I look at the paragraph or page I have just written and I realise my characters and their situations are taking on a life of their own that is not quite panning out as I had planned.
I ask myself where this comes from but I am too excited to pause and think of the answer; thinking on its own is the slow death of creation and it alone produces nothing but a lifeless, stilted canvas.
So I write some more, and as I get pulled in further and become my characters, the answer comes to me without having had to become embroiled in thought.
I am not as in control as I thought, I am not THE creator; I am co-creating. I am in a procreative dance of love-making with the universe, I am a vessel for the unborn creation. A seed is planted and an idea is sprung.
I give birth through my fingers.
It feels raw, it feels physical, It feels like another form of vomiting. Spewing something forth as my diaphragm contracts beyond my control, the energy behind the contractions coming from something I don’t understand. The words are thrown up not thought up, coming from a source that is beyond me; another place where nothing is accidental.
Gods and Goddesses we may be, but in this world that is led by these minds; only in fragments. When I am open, and all aspects of me, mind, body, heart and soul are joined, then I am not just me; I am a vein pumping life-blood, a bowel excreting, a heart throbbing, lungs filling, a gland sweating. I am earth fertilised and planted, the moon shone upon and a tide rising.
I sit back and breathe, exhausted by this fire that was in me. I crack my neck and re-read. I am conscious that I was here, consciously feeling, but I was not here, I was entranced and moving at the hands of the invisible.
I was everywhere.