“The essence of writing is not control, but release…. When writing is going well, it is not like pushing. It’s like falling. You fall the way you do in dreams.”
– Bonnie Friedman, Writing Past Dark
So you wait.
Maybe you stand, sit, pace the floor some more and try to unravel more of the mystery barely felt, subdermal and somehow, you sense, preexistent. How had you never noticed that urgent hum in its insistence before? Or maybe you had just chosen to forget.
And you know you must continue to wait. For the pieces to line up, the pattern to become discernible, emerging like a shape through fog into words that spool out tripping, then slowing to a stop.
And so you’ll wait for it, protecting this space. Believing it will happen is all you know to do, so you go make your second cup of coffee, taking trust with you as your feet carry you downstairs, the same old step creaking beneath your weight to remind you to consider cause and effect. The sun glancing in the window from a perfect 92.96 million miles away is just more proof. The energy is stored and expended in balance, symmetrical and perfect. Light given, sight received. Words formed, knowledge gained.
So you’ll wait. Your life attests to not much else after all. Relating what you know and nothing more for this will be your witness, at least you think. A thin knife splitting before from after will divide all you longed for into possessed and dispossessed, and the shocking reversal will only continue as you see how much you thought you needed has made you only poorer.
When will it all be revealed? And why do you want to know? And what is this questioning of everything, and how did you come to believe answers should be given, or even could? And what is now your business if you no longer believe that?
Are empty tombs proof, and is mystery evidence of devils, or just Mondays? Were questions defeated with death or deepened? You rush to answer questions and destroy the greater treasure.
The kettle creaks as the heat fills molecules and sends them skittering to suggest the glint of a cold fact: experience will surface your every destined revelation in the proper time and sequence. You do not presage their arrival for the boiling point of every thought is but an equation of volume plus heat plus time.
You know now you should have stuck to writing shorter pieces.
But there’s no unthinking the questions, no unhearing the song faintly heard. So now crush the seeds and now pour the water and now take your cup back creaking at every preordained place to patiently reverence this chance of now once again. You will finish this. This line will be traced and your truth will finally out.
If you just wait now.
For the higher purpose,