There must be a well inside of me that has burst.
I have started writing and now I cannot stop. It's like I am a flooding river who cannot be contained, a dike in Holland that has burst and refuses to be rebuilt. I am absolutely manic and producing thousands upon thousands of words, and I cannot control them, they are not coming from me but someplace beyond my grasp, I am just a vessel.
I am writing in my head, characters are speaking to me, I am a woman possessed.
Proust wrote himself sick, to his death, him too a man possessed and writing, writing, writing all night.
I will finally profess and proclaim it, this thing I have never been able to admit to myself nor declare to the world:
I am an artist, and I paint with words.
Ut pictura poesis.
Thank the heavens I live in the country for whom the ultimate artist is The Writer.
il faut faire la poésie comme la peinture.
There is no going back now.