Disheveled Urges

The urge 

The urge to write

to keep going, to not stop,

not out of panic, not out of pressure,

but a pulse. 

To pour out all of my emotions using words.

The feeling of needing to. 

Like it is essential for my existence.

I don’t feel drained

I feel ignited.

Like I’m chasing something

That's been trying to find me all along.

A calling, a craving, a whisper that turns into a shout:

do it

say it

pull the threads, unravel the thoughts

until they form something not clean, but true.

To empty out the jumbled words that coexist together in my brain,

that somehow end up making sense on paper. 

At least to me. 

Maybe not to the others who read. But still there it is.

What do I care about?

Why do I care?

Who handed me these questions

and when did I start answering them?

Everything touches everything 

threads knotted, tangled, braided, sometimes breaking.

It’s all one breath.

One long exhale.

I don’t know where it leads.

I just know I’m meant to follow.

And for now that’s enough.

And maybe, for once,

I don’t need to chase clarity.

Maybe the writing is the resolution.

The calm within the chaos.

The stillness beneath the noise.

And in this moment, simply showing up to the page feels like coming home.