My untold stories are all fighting in my head. Fighting for a chance, for a space in the living world, for the words they will live in, fighting to be first. I try to make them cue, as if they were waiting for the bus; but they tangle in a chaotic mesh, they press against the walls, and they grow and grow. And reproduce. Or Replicate. Or mutate. It is true agony. Some sort of door bouncer tries to keep them silent. And they shout louder. Says they are not important enough. And they keep pushing the door. They are not good enough. That sounds definite. The bouncer is called 'no-time' although this is not the monster's real name. The stories are beaten for a while. They deflate, liquidise, disolved in each other. Until somebody writes a post, until somebody drugs the bouncer, until they become the object of my re-born faith. Until I decide to be the advocate of their time. Because I have no option but to let them out.
Augh sooooooooooooo many!!!
Thank you for sharing this quote. It is exactly what I need to give me the courage to push through and write some of the deeper stuff that has been bubbling at the top of my concsciousness.
My pleasure, ladies! I'm going to make this a regular addition to SWIM.