Not a drip. Not a polite, intermittent leak. A full, open-gate rush. A relentless, pressurized stream of words that doesn’t ask if I’m ready, doesn’t care if I’m tired or busy or trying to pretend I have my life neatly arranged.
It just pours.
At first, it’s disorienting. I sit down to do one small thing – answer a message, make a list, scroll for five minutes, and suddenly I’m knee-deep in sentences. Ideas start elbowing each other. Half-formed memories push to the front of the line. Metaphors show up uninvited, carrying their own luggage. I’m not steering anymore. I’m holding on. Is it the ADHD? I’m currently awaiting a referral. Is it a bout of mania? Bi-polar has been mentioned in the past.
It feels less like I’m writing and more like I’m being written through.
There’s a strange panic that comes with it. A low hum of:
What if I lose this?
What if I don’t capture it fast enough?
What if I stop and it never comes back?
So I keep going.
My fingers move faster than my inner critic can keep up, which is rare and precious. The usual voice that tells me to be be afraid, that nobody cares, gets drowned out by the sheer volume of momentum. It’s hard to doubt when you’re sprinting downhill.
The words don’t always make sense at first. Sometimes they’re raw. Sometimes repetitive. Sometimes embarrassingly earnest. But they’re alive. They’re warm. They’re carrying something that’s been stuck in my head for a long time.
And that’s the part that feels good. It’s as if I opened a window in a stuffy room.
There’s relief in watching thoughts leave my head and become objects on a page. Once they’re outside me, they stop ricocheting so violently inside me. They stop pretending to be monsters. They become shapes I can look at. Rearrange. Trim. Maybe even understand.
Writing, in these moments, feels physical. My shoulders drop. My breathing deepens. I realize I’ve been clenching my fists for hours and didn’t notice. The body knows something important is happening before the mind can explain it.
It’s not always pretty.
Sometimes what comes out is messy and unflattering and inconvenient. Sometimes I discover feelings I would’ve preferred to keep theoretical. But even then, there’s a quiet gratitude underneath it all.
Because stagnation hurts more than honesty.
Silence can be heavier than noise.
And when the tap is open, at least something is moving.
I don’t know why these floods happen. I don’t know what flips the switch. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s accumulated unspoken things. Maybe it’s a subconscious rebellion against all the times I told myself to be quieter, smaller, more palatable.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that for a while, I get to exist without filtering every thought through ten layers of self-protection. I get to be porous. I get to spill.
There’s a particular sweetness in reaching the end of a writing surge. Not a dramatic finale. Just a gentle slowing. The current softens. The sentences space out. The urgency loosens its grip. It feels like setting down a heavy backpack you didn’t realize that you were carrying.
I don’t walk away feeling empty. I walk away feeling lighter. Still me. Still complicated. Still unfinished. But quieter in a good way.
If someone really has installed a tap in my head, I hope they never give me the wrench. Because as overwhelming as it can be, I’d rather live in a world where words sometimes flood me than one where nothing flows at all.
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