Sometimes, the stories you write, don't let you sleep. At night.
Your eyes burn all day through. Shamelessly, unbridled, your two eyes look red.
Like you made love all night, through dawn and didn't, hence get a wink of time, to sleep.
But that there was no real person.
All night, you stayed up, making love to your story.
And not getting enough of it. That's the libido of an idea.
A plot, that is driving you insane, almost as if it's new love and raw lust.
Each time you touch it up, undo and redo twists and turns, create pages, paragraphs and moments, it is the equivalent of touching the lover's body.
Feeling for curves, squeezing soft flesh.
Every pause in writing and the distant stare are like assuming and finding his arms in the pitch dark.
Waiting for fiction to come to you is like waiting for his next surprise move on you.
Like the act of love, writing a story is a two way thing. Being the subject and object in the same sentence. Being made love to and making all the good endless love, to him.
The men and women you are constantly creating and disintegrating, the narrations of their face come alive so strong and so real that their faces stare back at you from the screen and you can't sleep no more.
It's like Frankenstein. But a good one. This story of mine.