when it first came, it came as a plague.
a flash flood of creative impulses not felt in years.
when i was in the fourth grade i wanted to be a writer. i gave it up when i was told that it was a form of idolatry. i began to pursue the ministry.
in my early twenties, when things went bad, and all i had was frustration and anxiety and guilt, i suddenly found myself a writer.
i could not stop. i had to write. hours on hours each day. the thrill that came with each freshly darkened blank page. the joy of pressing ink to papyrus.
i would have to pull my car over numerous times a day to jot, to ruminate.
i couldnt sleep unless i had filled at least one page of my notebook with thoughts.
i still have numerous fast food napkins filled with poems.
it wasnt a choice it was a compulsion.
it was the most pleasurable compulsion anyone has ever known.
then one day, it stopped.
the flood dried.
my screaming mind fell silent.
it has never come back. not the way it originally was.
i am willing to die to bring it back.
10:28 a.m. - 2006-06-16
Recent entries:
Awake in My Tiny Cage - 2014-11-03
God. - 2014-10-27
I remember me. - 2014-10-17
The Paper - 2014-10-13
A Post About Not Doing Anything - 2014-10-12
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