Free. Falling.

Hours while away in useless catatonia, as I lie staring at the trees turn yellow in the courtyard. I know the to-do list runs long; I know the weekends are short. My stomach grumbles, the ache deep within won't ease up, and I have resigned myself to carrying it where I go. I create monsters and ghouls in my mind, they whisper their ugly stories in my ears and scream at my senses until I pass out again. 

When I wake, the sun has set over the chilly courtyard on Morton Street. My room is still a mess. But I feel something align itself along the base of my spine, a deep tingle making its way to my fingertips: the makings of Words. As I sit down at the typewriter, they begin to bubble in me, they race like a rash along my skin before bursting out onto the white pages in splatters of insight and clarity. I catch glimpses of a person I had nearly forgotten, of a purpose I've long been too tired to dare remember having. I fill the French press when I should be having dinner, turn up the music until it drowns out everything else, and type so fast it makes the machine smell of burning dust and warm ink. 

For the first time in a long time, I recognize my reflection in the window. It may not be pretty, disheveled from neglect as it is, but it is more me than I have felt in ages. It is as I have always known. 

The Word will set us free. 

The Word will render us

invincible.