There was a time I felt a drive to write, to turn on this computer and let my fingers make something up. Thought rarely came into play. That’s how I remember it, anyway. Something inside took over, an urge so powerful that I thought I’d destruct if I didn’t hand over the reins (reign…same). Writing was my oxygen and release, and I couldn’t breathe without it.
But lately I’ve been writing and deleting over and over. I’m having trouble allowing myself to push that button that shares my words with the world. Like the writer in me has retreated to someplace deep inside.
. . . .
I’ve been thinking lately of things I want to achieve that I’ve been putting off because I’ve been too lazy to work for them. I opened my computer just now to make a list of those things, to put them all in one place and let them stare back at me, dare me, call me a lazy coward and push that one button that makes me fight back.
And naturally, I ended up here.
But the writer has disappeared into a cave, the one in my chest that opens now and then and sucks the life out of me.
What say I get the hell out of this house for a while?