It flip-opens in you. It bursts out. Gashes deep. Makes you bleed. You’d writhe or feel stifled. You’d flinch or struggle. But you wouldn't complain. For if you do, you don’t have it in you.
Long coffee sessions, caffeine rush. Fistful of rum. Or chalice-deep wine. Singular walks. Drifting monsoon. Dwindling hills. Gushing rivers. Smoke, fire, or snow. Forests or deserts. Longhand. Sharp wit. Vague humor. Extended talk. One humongous sigh. That eccentric silence. The abyss inside a thought. These are indispensable. A slight remark would set you off. A tiny inkling would fuse into spark. A background sound would tick your edge. It would demand or vanish. It would sink or float. You might have to chase it. You might have to erase it. You might have to do it over and over as long as you breathe.
Cut it. Be it. The writer.