Bleed

Then one day it comes to you. You spend all day circling it, slaving over hot stoves (the weather doesn't call for it, but you're trying to scare out the mouse that lives within), singing other songs and other stories, feeling it bubble within but not quite ready yet. I sat down late at the typewriter, and it whispered things I should already know but was glad to hear again, and when the cursor began blinking, a whole other world appeared.

So many days pass when you do not feel the magic in your veins, when the words you write are dusty and common and you begin to doubt you were ever meant to put any ink into the world, but one night in revelry erases every such thought from your nerves. Anything seems possible, you want to never sleep, or eat, or waste time on meaningless worldliness. All you ever want is to sit in silence, in this cramped corner in this messy room, and listen to a story that paints itself inside your eyelids. It's a story that no one knows and no one sees but you. It is your little secret.

Until you tell it.