I woke up this morning, dragged myself out of my cosy camper bed, to sit out in the cold, because I felt the urgent pulling need for a sit on my own.
A sit to write in.
And now I am here.
I don’t know what needs to come out. Something does. I can feel it. Pushing out against my skin, put pressure on every single atom of me. There is an urge so strong that I am sitting here writing frantically, desperately trying to drag it out of me.
What is it? What am I trying to say? What needs to come out?
I can feel it slipping away, dissipating inside me as I watch birds flit over the Scottish fell.
* I wrote this last week whilst camping in Scotland. It kinda captures the pull of writing, the pull of being on my own. And the agony when the writing slips away *