Everything around me gets blown away. Not even a speck remains on the whiteness of my mind. I can't feel anything, can't see anything, can't hear anything. I can't grasp even a scrap of emotion.

I sit still, unable to think. Occasional wisps of something, ideas maybe, appear in the corner of my vision, but when I reach to grasp at them, they fly away like birds, afraid to be caught. There is nothing I can do but walk forward, towards something or nothing. I feel that I’m walking in circles, pulled unknowingly into a current that brings me nowhere and everywhere at once.

Birds of words squawk and honk, and before I see them, they’re gone. Fish jump out beside me, too slippery to catch. Snakes slither over me, biting before I can touch. Then it’s all gone, and I’m suddenly aware.

Aware of the ball of words, rolled up like yarn. Aware of the string that dares me to pull. Aware of the world within. Aware of the fingers that itch to create.

I pull the string, unravelling the ball and drawing out the world, stacking words on words on words. I know what I have to do, what I want to do, what I will do.

And then the six days are over and it’s time to find something new.