I Think I Just Wrote Poetry

The night of the first day of the first year had me writing. My mind won’t stop churning out words, thoughts, ideas. I am supreme and in control; like the world had suddenly laid out its garden of ethereal wonders, unraveling its secrets in bizarre unexpected ways. Ideas have ripened with time, ready for plucking, for conquering. Every cell in my body throbs with this newfound enlightenment and deprived me of sleep. My muscles pulse and numbs in painful succession.

I feel very much alive.

So I do what I should or what I think I should: I write. Let the words create themselves, come alive and fill the void like buzzes in silence. The feelings that have eluded me suddenly became clear and crude and I can easily discern them from everything else. The questions I laid out in the open have figured themselves without my knowing it, without my acknowledging it.

Drunk by words, I gather the pieces to create a conundrum. This entry of nothingness, leading to nothingness, of nothingness. My mind in a daze.  The blank space used to hound me; now it paled like the enigma. Burning somewhere, forgotten. I suddenly know this. I suddenly remember. I now know again.

I ache.
I forget the ache.
I ache again.

I feel immortal.