It doesn't take much when it happens.
Usually it's something as small as a quote half-read on Pinterest, or a line of music played on a piano by someone who means it. Sometimes it's the feel of azalea leaves under my fingertips. The sound the trees make when wind starts rushing through their branches. The way my carkeys fit into my hand or how my brother's sneakers hit the floor.
It never takes much, but it's a hair trigger. It just takes a touch.
It's all the stories, all the people, that could potentially come from me, imploding inside my veins. "It's as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror" except there's no terror and there's no sudden silence. All the future beings that might live inside my head wake up and all together announce their presence.
It's like static, it's like emotions, it's like thousands of years of lives and relationships and voices tangling up just under my skin and if I don't write them or at least write something to drown them out then I'll just go up in flames or explode or turn to dust or at the very least have a heart attack and die because my physical body is too weak for this. Or maybe I'll just go insane and start talking back to the creatures in my head.
Sometimes I wonder if it's a healthy way to survive. But I'd rather have the insanity than the silence. Being crammed with impatient people is better than being on your own.