Penmac

Write, write, write. It is what my fingers want, my brain wants, my being wants, yet the words refuse to come out the ends of my fingers as they trip so easily across the keyboard. I feel cold, unsatisfied, and head for the warmth of sunshine. The brilliance relieves some of the icyness and though I start to melt, I am still unsatisfied, and what melts refreezes and hardens even more. Noises I hear, unstimulating and distracting, irritate, berate, and frustrate. I try to reach unfathomable proportions of my brain to seek, seek out the words that I so desire only to find that I must dig deeper and deeper and dee...