I don't know what it is, but I need to write. I don't have something about which to write, but I need this right now. I look at my fingers and they are literally trembling as they hover above the keys. They feel like your legs when you've been sitting on a plane for hours and need to walk, but it's stronger than that. I need to RUN.
I need a release here, a writing orgasm of some sort, an euphoric explosion of emotion on the page. My scribblings in my notebooks during class are becoming more and more frantic. I am itching all over, like I took a shit ton of Adderall and can't calm down. My heartbeat is too fast; I am chaos. Wow, that was a sad attempt at being "artsy."
However, it's 11 o'clock at night and I'm exhausted from a few too many late-nights working on papers and studying. I'm burned out from the year and want to relax...but these pesky hands...they are drumming themselves on my keyboard...like a fucking crack addict begging for their fix...I need to stop using drug metaphors as though I know what I'm talking about...
I want to yell at my hands and say, "NO! Just wait a couple more weeks til summer and then you can write as much as you want. Finally get Autumn Leaves done with and move on with your writing career. In fact, make a writing career for yourself. Get writing before you forget all these brief moments of brilliance swirling in your brain. Write down all these ideas before they disappear. Write like it's your job...write like you still want it to be your job."
So I'll go downstairs to the basement of my sorority house, try to find some food in the kitchen, and take a breath, maybe read the paper. Tomorrow I'll go on with my day, nothing too exciting, with initiation and senior ceremony at night.
Alex will take me to the bookstore in the afternoon and buy me a present because he's a sweetheart. Perhaps I will coerce him into letting me stay over after initiation is done late at night...damn it'll be like 10:30pm. I like sleeping in his bed, with his arm around my torso, as I smile into the pillow.
Next week is the last week of classes, then finals will come. After that I'll move into my new apartment for the summer with Gianna and we'll both start our, more or less, full-time jobs. Work open to close Tues-Thurs, rest of the time to myself. Four days a week, completely free. My boyfriend will be off at his big boy internship and everyone will be working.
And what will I do with myself? I will fucking write. Why? Because I need to; desire is no longer, no, can no longer be a requirement. I must write, or else let my dreams fail, or create more obscenely high stakes. Maybe I should go to bed before I get even more dramatic. My fingers are slowing down. I hope that's enough for them for now.