800

Words.

Three. Ten. A hundred. A thousand. Four thousand. Ten thousand four hundred and forty four. One hundred eighty thousand, three hundred eight.

Words are my refuge. My tool. My crass addiction. Words are my prize and my gift, my offering and my withdrawal. Words are my illness and my cure. I can never have enough, but I always have too many.

It all comes back to me, and the realization is stark. This is it. This is what I've been looking for. More words. Descriptions. Dates and times and people and places, nouns and verbs. This is the inspiration I've been missing, and the truth becomes clear. A metaphor. What's called inspiration is, to me, not a pleasant affair. The definition is clear.

What you call inspiration, I call an anxiety attack. A period of prolonged feelings of unease, of unwellness. Depression. Fear. Anxiety.

I can't imagine another hour of this. Every minute's like a held breath. How did I make it this far?

The answer's clear. In fact, it's spread out before me. Pages and pages of it.