I can't seem to manage a single day without the prospect of writing coursing through my mind like so many neurotransmitters. I think about writing while I'm at my computer. I think about writing while I'm in the kitchen. I think about writing while I'm brushing my teeth, combing my hair, using the John, walking the dog, taking out the trash, tying my shoes, driving to class, making love. I even dream of writing.
I do not process common thought as anything other than receding vertical lines of letters, like The Matrix grid. I often wonder what life would be like without the written word. Without the art of storytelling. I don't think I would be able to survive, and I would probably crinkle in brown depression like an egg left to fry too long.
I'd like to give my mind a break every once in a while, but distraction eludes me.
What's even worse is when I sit down to write I'm often dejected due to fear of the finished product, and therefore can't seem to satiate my literary lust. Am I beyond hope?
I do not process common thought as anything other than receding vertical lines of letters, like The Matrix grid. I often wonder what life would be like without the written word. Without the art of storytelling. I don't think I would be able to survive, and I would probably crinkle in brown depression like an egg left to fry too long.
I'd like to give my mind a break every once in a while, but distraction eludes me.
What's even worse is when I sit down to write I'm often dejected due to fear of the finished product, and therefore can't seem to satiate my literary lust. Am I beyond hope?
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