All I want is to write! To write! To find that love of words again and spew it out on the page and have it make something beautiful! Am I allowed that anymore? What have I done to have the love of the greatest and most powerful ability in the world taken from me? To lose a passion that was going to take me hundreds and thousands of miles in life, both figuratively and literally? Where has that love gone? And is it possible to retain it, to have it returned to me?

Maybe it's not love I pine for, but inspiration. Children spend all of their time thinking and dreaming; I spent all of mine recording those thoughts and dreams. Have the stress and distractions developed over time simply caused me to lose touch with that creative aspect of myself, those thoughts and dreams?

And yet. I still think, I still dream, I still have ideas! Every day I find myself longing for an outlet, a place in which I know I can always count on to express the thoughts and feelings inside me. What does this say about my writing? That I really do not love it anymore? Or that I've just forgotten how to use it for a while?

And yet again. Nearly everything that comes through my fingers, my mind, and onto the page is good, I have been told. I still find that joy in me when prompted, when assigned. Even when I don't, I think like a writer. So why is it I feel as though I have nothing to say ON THE PAGE anymore? Or, at least, nothing independent?

Or maybe, just maybe, I just don't have enough. Though I have thousands, MILLIONS of thoughts each day, maybe I just don't have enough to say about each of them. Or MAYBE - I do, but I lack the drive, the discipline to say it all. Maybe it is just a lack of discipline holding me back! But - this could never be the case! I am constantly feeling these thoughts yearning to be released! If this were the case, I would require discipline simply to HOLD THEM BACK!

Or could it simply be that I'm thinking these thoughts at the wrong time? I have them, ALWAYS have them, but in the middle of classes, of conversations, of walking down the street without a pen or computer on my person. Maybe, if I could freeze time when I needed to, my writing dam would burst open and thoughts would pour onto the page effortlessly. Wouldn't that be a wonderful thing.

Someday I will find this love again, this love as I used to have it. Maybe my writing is like a person, a lifelong companion. I fell in love with it once; then I fell out. Perhaps, someday, I will fall BACK in love with it. Maybe, just maybe, a prompt every now and
then is all I need to do so. A single prompt, and...

...My creativity will break free from its mental prison. And I will rejoice.