Writing

I can't write anymore. I like writing, I think about writing, I woult write all the hours there are. I used to get ideas all the time, things to write about, and did not think about writing at all. And then I got addicted to writing. Now I think about writing all the time and do not get any ideas at all. Oh, my, how things change! So, what do I write about today? Do I write about trees, the sodden skies, people I know or just complete strangers? Do I write about the strange city dog that took a dump in front of me as I was on my way to work and did not realise straight away what the dog was up to (he kept his ass close to a wall)? Do I write about the sick, mad season that we have these days? About the January spring? About the thoughts that come along with the realisation that life is not just a fun game you play in the park?

No, none of these. I feel something, yet undefined, growing inside (no, i'm not pregnant) and it will soon storm out in words of such beauty and precision that it will break my heart to part with them.

Monday 15 January 2007