A microfiction that describes the process I went through to write this microfiction. A self-referential piece called:
No words, no words. I have no words to describe it. I just have this burning feeling like I’m wasting time.
It does not seem to care that I’m exhausted. It does not even care that my hands are sore as I write this. My head is dropping in a desperate attempt to sleep. My eyes slip closed with every pulse of my heart. Yet, the hand on my shoulder just squeezes tighter, and I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.
It’s as if every finger-fall is forcing another word out of me. Like a chain of connected, yet impromptu, creation is springing forth from my head. It swirls faster and faster now; a basin spilling over the edge. A caffeine drip directly into my nerves. My back straightens and I lose any sense of tiredness that I had before.
It does not seem to matter to her what time it is, or what I should be doing. Every attempt to think of anything but the words that keep spilling from me makes my stomach tie up in knots. I can’t type–I never learned– but for the moment that doesn’t seem to matter. My fingers know the keys like a child knows its mother’s face.
I can’t stop. My muse has already decided this.
Oh, the glory of the artist, to have no control over when I create.
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