Words are fickle things. They pile up inside you, and threaten to choke you with their insesitant need to be released. Yet when you decide it's time to give them life, they go into hiding. They take the characters and the descriptions and the stories with them. They go back into hibernating among your blood vessels and subconscience.
I want to write, but the words won't come. I am brain dead. I have writers block. The kind that spans a six months with no end in site. The kind you fear is permanent but that you refuse to describe as so just in case it's true.
My eyes hurts, my head pounds, and my fingers ache. Type type type. Delete. Type type type. Delete. There is no end in site.
I miss the beauty the satisfaction of reading something I've written, the way it sounds rolling off my tongue as I read it outloud. I miss scanning it for mistakes, and going back and changing what needs to be changed. I miss letting my mind wander down streets lined with adjetives, with doors leading into unknown realms of the subconscience. I miss the freedom that is the written word.
I miss knowing there is no hiding the truth in fiction. For fiction is sorting through the facts for the embelishments. I miss adding the twists and turns and smells and sights and people... I miss creating life with paper and ink. I miss what it means to create something horrifyingly beautiful with only my mind and hands. I miss what it feels like knowing I belong to this magical group of people that have the ability to spins stories that transfer the reader into a different place, a different body, a different time.
I miss writing.
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