When writing is like running but with words.

Sometimes, the train of our thoughts seems to be on its own railway, except there's no timetable and no one at the information desk.
When an idea steps on the train, it never announces itself, it always comes out of the blue.
An idea is like a rebel teenager who just ran away from home. He doesn't respect traffic lights and the fact that he must wait for the train to stop before stepping in.
Bold, he jumps on the train, catalyses it, and suddenly, the slow locomotive becomes a high-speed train. It goes faster and faster, while the brain is desperetaly sending us signals that an idea is on the train.

At that moment, there are two choices.

1. You let it go.
2. You take your best running shoes and chase it.

Writers don't have the choice, number one isn't an option and not having good running shoes isn't an excuse.
We must run with a pen and a sheet of paper in our clenched fists to catch our thoughts.
Running isn't easy, darling, and chasing an idea isn't less hard.

An exercise implies an effort. And running could have been a synonym of wrestling or struggling.
It is a little war the body leads against itself. It is the feeling of uncoutable paradoxical emotions at the same time.
It is our lungs trying to extinguish a fire that is burning in our chest, trying to stop the combustion. It is our blood pumping this golden liquid on a beat he doesn't know. He doesn't have this partition. Meanwhile our legs just want to surrender but the mind says "NO".
The brain is on charge and refuses to retreat.

Failing bruises the ego the same way runners bruise their knees when they're falling.

The train is still on its way, and from time to time we succeed in catching it.
And just like during a relay race, we grab the idea. We grab this idea and don't release the pressure of our fingers until all the words have been poured down on paper. 

But it isn't always the case.
By trying to write faster than our thoughts, we might get lost in the streets of our neurons.
We try different synaptic connexions, but it's never the good one.

Frustrated, we wonder on a wreck caught inside our own brain storm, the vibrant echo of a hundred words making the paper in our hands shake. They are the mermaids of Ulysses, their haunting whisper trying seducing us, howling to be written. 

They look like the idea, they have the same letters, but not the same poetry.