Rusty pipes

I've started writing again after thirty-some years of grocery lists and memos and business letters as the sum of my writing, if that's what I can pretend to call it, anyway. I feel like a rusty faucet that hasn't been touched in years, only to find myself suddenly twisted and turned. Is it air in the pipes, or rust that scratches and then, as the flow becomes faster, a way of finally letting it all go? The stories keep coming, one after the other, with the oddest series of events coming together in some sort of story-like progression. First, an idea comes to me, just playing around on the edges of my consciousness and then it gets louder, and finally so insistent that I have to stop whatever I'm doing and sit down at my desk. Turning on the monitor, I open a blank document and, before I can think, a title has been typed, and then the date... and that's when the weirdest part of all happens. I start to type, quickly and with little regard for typos or grammar or any of that, and the words come out and onto the paper. And just as abruptly, I'm done. The words stop, and I look back to find the title has been appropriate, although I don't know that when I start. I run the spell check, re-read the paragraphs, do a word count, and print it out. It sounds very mechanical and somehow contrived, but the auto-pilot is running all the while, and I cannot swerve from the course even one degree. Funny incidents, sad incidents, shocking incidents... all the incidents of my life are pouring out the faucet of my fingers and onto to the screen. Kinda like right now... weird, and just a little bit spooky, but I don't mind. It's what I need to do for right now, and then I'll know what to do next. Or so I'm told.