I just wanna write. Seriously, that’s it. Write. My hands have the urge to move across the page, colorful pen in hand, to create a scene of moments that is well written, so deeply understood and so moving that everyone who reads it will be moved… to tears… to action, to… something.
Unfortunately, my mind – and even my mood – has not allowed it. It won’t even let me do something as simple as journaling. Really?
There’s really no need to bemoan the point, I’m sure you understand what I mean. The longing to wrap my fingers around a pen or caress the keyboard with my fingertips, to glide my hand along the crisp pages of one of the journals or notebooks I cover, or watch the screen of my laptop fill with words. Words I may or many not sue in the end, but at least I would have the satisfaction of creating.
Wait a minute, in a way I’ve just done exactly what I said I couldn’t do. This isn’t “so well-written, so deeply understood and so moving that everyone who reads it will be moved… to tears, to action, to… something,” but it’s a start, yes?