i'm back: the ink is an ocean

Do you think our creativity can get blocked, sometimes for years, but it doesn't go anywhere? And when that invisible dam holding it back finally breaks, pent-up force comes roaring out?

Because that's happening to me right now.

I've been writing so much, so quickly, that my pen ink overwhelms the page, and when I shut my notebook at night it seeps out the edges, first in a trickle then a pour, rushing off my desk in rivers down the stairs like blood in an old film. I awake in the morning and clap in delight at the wreckage of my writings from the night before.

I'll go to bed at midnight, and then an idea will hit me at 00:30 and then at 1 and then at 4, and next thing I know my neighbor's roosters are crowing and I've written a delirious story using the notes app of my phone, half of it misspelled in the dim light with no glasses, my heart racing, eyes wide, and I'm utterly, intensely, happy. The next night, repeat.

I've been falling in love with everyone I meet lately. I'm dizzyingly infatuated with the comedian from Boise, the creative from twitter, and the eccentric Austin friend, who, when we hold hands in my dream, I look up and say quizzically, "Us?! Are you sure?"

He simply gives a placid smile that stretches so wide it overtakes the rest of him, and squeezes my palm tighter, grinning wider, until all I can see is smile and sky.

Every evening, I put in headphones and go for long walks through the woods behind my home. The music is sweet as sin and I'm skipping on magic instead of around half-eaten armadillo carcasses and decaying leaves. I often take out my notes app and jot down ideas for little stories as I walk, as the ink rushes from my mind down the stairs again and again and again.