I like to write.
Simple as it is, writing to me isn’t earning fame by writing an epic fantasy
story about daring heroes and love triangles. Writing to me is any jumbled
tidbit of words that people will appreciate and take into consideration. An
inspiring life’s work where the average person can read cuddled up on the
couch, a hot cup of tea in one hand and my words in the other, sitting in
tranquility. This isn’t however, all about writing to please people. It’s
writing because I love writing, and because something is on my heart, and I
want that something heard. I love finding myself writing away, my words slowly
unraveling where hopefully people will take these colorful sentences and absorb
them. I don’t want others to idolize me, but the story I have to share.
Lately, I write and
find myself stuck. Either staring at the blinking line on the computer screen
or staring at a messy blob of writing, my frozen hand and pencil poised halfway
in the air. I feel like every word I type will be too boring, vague, and dull for
the average reader to enjoy.
The wind oddly reminds me of water; how it flows endlessly over the earth, an invisible force above us. A gentle breeze soothes us, but a powerful windstorm doesn't. And that is what caused me to sit here and type.
Last night, the wind howled as trashcans and various objects were being tousled by the perilous winds. Debris clattered outside
as I laid sweating inside my bed, the comforter bunched up around my ears as I
tried to find a way to block out the rain-like sound.
School was
canceled, causing my cousin and I to remain indoors with not a considerable
amount of things to do.
What would you do on a day like this?
