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2003-11-20 | 9:18 p.m.
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I want to write. I have all sorts of things flashing through my brain but as soon as I face this box, or any of its incarnates, I freeze. Then I panic. The need to create looms large in my soul. It calls to me and I dont know how to answer. Frustration courses through my veins, poisoning everything that I do. My breath is heavy with discontent. My joints ache, filled with sacs of fluid. Sacs of untapped potential. Just do it they say. Do what? I write. I have pages of nothing. Many trees have fallen and stic pens bled dry. But the whisper is still there - create... and peace does not exist.
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