To Write

The steady percussion of the rain mellows me. The enveloping darkness of the room draws me to the glow of the screen. The keyboard taunts me like a snot-nosed kid with his tongue out, and his thumbs in his ears—shaking his hands at me. I have this need to let it all out but I can't control it. At best, I can ride it like a wild horse never to be tamed. In some instances I feel pain to let it out, but most of the time it's an urge not unlike passion for a lover. I don't know what to do but let the words exist, and see what happens.

"The Pages are still blank but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible." Vladimir Nabokov