The Process

A man or woman vomits on the floor. This is the process of the writer: the chunky bloody mess strewn about. Yes, it comes from the author and the general direction is determined, but the pattern takes form from physics. It can be changed if someone wants to get his or her hands dirty. The process, oh the process, often arises at times inopportune to be purged. Drunk, sick, or gluttoned with Idea, the vomit spews. No, it is not the bare blunt inner truth, but it is honest and human. Though the author feels the acid and knows the cause, only those who see the mess see what it is either in whole or in chunks. And until enough time passes and it remains (usually due to a devoted few), most will say with noses in the air, it stinks.