Full of Story

Rustic door with rusted doorknob

All semester I've enjoyed the stimulation of intense learning toward my Masters in English/Creative Writing. The department is extra SF friendly and the faculty is great. Still, I haven't been critiquing or writing as much as I need to.

And now I'm full of story.

Those who have to write will likely know what I mean, but I'll try and articulate it anyhow.

It's like there's a great, big, rough wooden door in my head between my unconscious/subconscious/imagination/dream-self and my outward/conscious expression. And right now there's a massive first slamming itself against the door: Knock knock knock.

My veins are pulsing, there's a sheen of sweat on my forehead; I have to open the door.

When I do, I know what will happen. There will be a tempest and I'll have to catch it in something: a glass jar, a story, a teacup.

At first it's gonna be a mess, like a flood of tiny glass beads that need to be sorted by color.

By I have to do it. I'm just so full.

I can sort it out later.

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