Words erupt from deep within my core. Frequently it seems that a tsunami has been generated, the emotions are sucked up and ride atop an enormous dynamic word inferno, desperate to be released.

Often I am compelled to write, it is a way to share powerful unarticulated thoughts. In my life I am driven by emotions (who isn’t?) that occasionally overwhelm my reality. My brain fizzes with such intensity that I have to smash the words down without delay.

Despite limited artistic knowledge I totally empathise with the moment when great artists found inspiration. When I read of them rushing headlong down to the Mediterranean to live in the glorious light which empowered the likes of Van Gogh to paint I nod, I comprehend. In my own small way, when I am gardening and the word-volcano strikes I have to down tools and write. The end product is immaterial, what matters is giving life to the words.

More to the point I would love to time travel with the artist, be the fly on the wall as creative juices crashed out onto canvas. See their total commitment, oblivious to the world as they fulfilled a primal urge. I wonder if it came as a surprise when the work was finished and they stepped back, out of their compulsion, to view the result. I bet they didn’t need to change a thing. I understand the torment if the compulsion struck and they were unable to feed the gannets.

How magical to have been a paint brush in the hands of Van Gogh.

How stimulating to have been ink in the quill of Shakespeare.

How glorious to be the twirling incense in an ancient Himalayan monastery.

Personally, as the intensity fades I remember who I am, I feel the tension in my hands ooze away and I notice the scraps of notepaper, covered in riddles and rhyme, strewn around like feathers from a plucked swan. Those words are me, amazing.

Once published, I realise that YOU are reading these words and that YOU are surely also driven with equally strong desires and primal urges. I realise that YOU are the fly on the wall of my emotional heart.

Be gentle.