That's how writing is at its best. What more could I ever ask, what other delight could ever compare to that incredible rush, that inner wind touching everything, blowing everywhere, demanding everything? There are no words to describe that high. The paradox of words needing words, of the silence that is full of words.
Then imagine trying to do that with a faulty vocabulary, in an alien tongue, like holding small sharp objects in numb paws. Then the anguish and the failing and the hunger, the inability to be the dance, the faltering steps. Then the abyss.
But the dance is worth it.
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1Watt, Hermit took the picture of the Luna moth. The moth that dances the drunken dance of the night.