A Writing Process

The wind rushes past me, cracking tiny whips against my brow. An expansive ocean blue dotted white and grey spreads around me in every direction. The rushing winds pounding marching band rhythms in my eardrums, a crescendo of infinitely berating noise. Am I flying? Yes… no, the opposite, I’m falling. The great ocean blue gives way it’s view to an approaching grand sphere, a vast, growing giant overshadowing my once life-giving view. The marching band rhythms from within my head meet their accompaniment with the rapid pacing of a growing heart rate. A plan, I need a plan. My mind races, stretching across a myriad of impossible possibilities, trying it’s very best to grasp any flash of a conscious idea. Suddenly, a new sensation, previously remaining unforeseen due to the chariot race of ideas. Peppering raindrops collide against me creating split second craters from the liquid impact. The flickering pellets create a sort of metronome seemingly following the pattern of seconds ticking by. These seconds flickering by as a far, but ever growing, deadline slowly creeps upon me. A spark… a, by definition, small fiery particle thrown out, a possible conscious solution to my conundrum. The sparks continue to flash around, darting from between the white spots littering the sky. Finally, at the last possible second a saving grace is found. The spark continues to dart around, until eventually it connects against my back. The ensuing flash temporarily blinds my wind-blown eyes from seeing its product. Eventually, my sight returns and on my back I find a small brown pack, oddly enough, labeled “PARACHUTE” in large bolded letters. I follow the cord that is attached to the pack and find it’s ending. Without seconds thought, I quickly pull the cord springing loose the canvas that had previously been neatly sealed within the godsend brown pack. Stretching out behind me, the canvas catches in its sail the wind, jerking my rapid decent to a sudden calm glide. Time slows; my once rapid stream of consciousness brings itself back down, slowly approaching normalcy. The looming shadow of an unstoppable deadline, now remains still, as I, at my own leisure, meander towards it. My ungraceful return back down to the ground is rushed and forced causing some unwanted stress, but leaves me happy nonetheless knowing that the ground beneath my feet remain solid. I step forward, and the bell rings signaling the end of another gruesome test session. Sitting in my chair, I stare back down at my finished paper, which characteristically, lacks any sort of writing on the planning sheet. I sign my name at the top, and rest it down upon the growing stack of peer papers.