Random

Consuming Me

The desire to put the pen to the paper is consuming. More and more difficult I find it to concentrate on work, on the world, on other people. The story moves and I watch closely to grasp the nuances of its swaying, seductive dance. It will take me where it will; I have no choice but heed its voice. But I will try to capture every word. For all I can hope to do is tell it.

I am burdened with it. It weighs heavily on my mind like wet denim.