Writing about writing.

‘When the lights went out’ inhabited me and possessed me for what seemed like an eternity. I lived inside it by day and slept inside it by night. It was all embracing. It controlled me and fed off me until I physically and mentally became like the walking dead. It captured me, and my insides became the book, and I was unable to escape. It became my reluctant refuge.
It drained my energy and squeezed me like a sponge even though I was racing around inside. Its all consuming, voracious appetite took everything from me and kept me in its grasp.
Something inside and outside of me was pushing me and driving me to the edge. I couldn’t find the limits. The addiction took control and I became a passenger on the trip. I’m afraid to get off for fear of ending up in a vacuum on a deserted desert.
I tried to escape and close down many times, but I became its prisoner. It held me with a compulsive intensity to the very end.
I think I’m finished, but it’s still devouring me.