Write Time

What does it take to write? 

A room, Woolf immortalized. Defeat doubt, wrote Plath somewhere. Put them together in a ceramic cauldron and bring to boil. You will surely have tasted dissatisfaction in a cup. And that makes it so irresistible. This quench for the perfect taste certainly outruns the dearth of that infinite thing called time. You brew and you drink, your brew and then drink some more. Repeat. To finally arrive at Bradbury's "You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you". Strange how Bradbury rhymes with Cadbury, and makes the potion feel like hot chocolate.

It shards and shreds the soul to keep writing, but once I do, I know I have that soul to build back, sweat by sweat. I know I am alive. That takes the salt away and makes it sweet. Away from the words, feels like disowning myself, like I have not been fair.

I wish I could rewind time and stop myself from changing channels or crushing candies, and command myself to write. Of course it would be a command, one that says, "Yes, its the write time!"

If only life was Hogwarts.

If only spoons circled themselves in the hot chocolate.

It would then be blood writing all over. Painlessly. Feather light. 

It would be the write time. 

Like now.