When I don't write. It's not because I have nothing to say. When I don't write, it's because I have too much to say. Thoughts crowd my mind like so many books weighing on old shelves. Thoughts. Fragments. They float mid-air. If I don't write, I don't give shape and form to these floating things. I feel that I fail.
Lately the thoughts come thick and fast. They fill the shelves of my mind so full they tumble off into a cahotic heap. When I lay down at night my head is heavy as lead because it's so full of thoughts.
I know very well my thoughts are not always, if ever, original. My small mind contains questions that have been asked by millions of minds before me.
But there's something satisfying in expressing something in your own words even if it isn't your original idea.
What is the good of having thoughts, opinions; ideas, if you can't give them flesh and bones in clear words? Thoughts without words are faceless clocks that can't tell time, croissants without butter, books with empty pages.
I feel as though I could lock myself away for a long time and just write. The words would spill reckless over the pages. In the end, I wouldn't have an incredible manuscript, something brimming with oringinal ideas. I wouldn't have a New York Times Bestseller. But what I would have, would be mine. It would be my thoughts and ideas made flesh.
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