The feeling had become unfamiliar to me, but I could still remember what it was. There was a tightness in my chest, a buzzing in my head. My hands felt an odd, phantom-like itch. I wanted to write.

In my prime, I would already know what the words I wanted to say were. I could see them, I used to see everything in words and descriptions. Then, one day, I just couldn't see them anymore. The only time I felt this odd and uncontrollable urge was when I needed to vent. --but I was calm as these feelings began. There was no stress pushing my pen to paper. Instead, something new was knocking at my heart and waiting to be set free. What could it be? I wasn't sure, but I wanted to find out. I needed to find out.

So I grabbed my laptop, and sat in front of an open window. Rain was starting to drizzle, it was so dark I couldn't see the droplets. I heard them loud and clear, like a lullaby echoing inside my skull. I opened a blank document and put my fingers to the keyboard. I didn't type, yet. I kept looking out the window, staring out at the abyss. I listened as the droplets grew faster, I took in the smell of the wet grass and leave with a deep breathe. Then the lightening came. It was far in the distance, it made now sound, but I jumped. My eyes flicked quickly to wear it had been, but it was already gone. Had I really seen it? For a moment, I wasn't sure. Then, the next strike of lightening came, closer and brighter this time. Moments later, the first roll of thunder boomed. It was still distant. The storm grew closer and closer. I stayed stuck by the window --watching and waiting, my  hands still hovering above keys my keyboard, my head still buzzing that odd buzz. I could no longer tell what I was waiting for. I had always been scared of thunderstorms, but for some reason in that moment the storm inside me felt bigger and scarier than the one outside. I was calmed by the sounds of the darkness, and the smells of the earth.

The storm inside of me had its own lightening and thunder. Two sides of me fighting a battle with no foreseeable end. The words inside my heart begged to be set free, but the voice inside my head wondered if those words were anything more than a figment of my old hopes and dreams. I hadn't written, properly written, in almost three years. Why was the feeling returning? What words had survived the apocalypse of my passion?

My hands still hovered above the keys. The uneasy calm still lingered. Then, somewhere in the distance, three short and sharp pops fired off rhythmically. Pop. Pop-pop. Gunshots? I couldn't be sure, but it was better to be safe than sorry. I close the window, I drew the curtains, I turned out the lights. Then, I sat back down in the chair I had been in. I placed my laptop back onto my pajama-clad thighs, closed my eyes for a moment as I took one more deep breath. Finally, I pressed down upon the keys. One letter, and then the next. Until I had a sentence, and then a paragraph, and then a whole page, and then... I felt exhausted. I couldn't remember the words that had flown out of me. All I felt was the exhaustion of a soul that had finally bled itself out onto a page for the first time in so long. Yet, somehow, the itch was still there. It was calmer now, a strong urge instead of an incessant need.

I let the exhaustion overtake the itch, I would return to it tomorrow. Right?