Wednesday, May 19, 2010

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

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