The writer, as it grows and learns, goes out and eats the world, eats the people, eats the stories, eats itself. It all is digested, it fills the writer and develops its body and mind.
It all churns inside the writer's stomach, out of sight and out of reach but its movements can still be felt within. The sway has its own gravity, the writer can only position itself to perhaps alter its flow, or take medicine if it gets painful. And sometimes, it comes out. Like vomit that can only be held back so far, it comes out when it comes out. And when it comes out, the writer can only try its best to make the expulsions make a picture that looks like a picture and not a chaotic mess of splotches.
The sight of the pre-existing vomit stains on the curb only adds to the churning within, and so the picture becomes fuller. Sometimes, there's a splotch that juts out and clashes with the rest, and so the writer either looks at the vomit until it makes sense again, fills out the gaps between the stains with paint or washes off the offending section.
Writing is vomit. Or at least mine is.
...but, like, in a good way.
(I don't even know. This is the random thoughts thread, this is a random thought. Metaphors help me understand.)