It's like a craving, a need. And not that I'm always the most articulate person on the planet, and not that I necessarily believe that I have anything to say that the world wants or needs to hear, but still I need to write.
I can't explain it. I can only liken it to people who HAVE to make music; people who MUST compete. It is a compulsion of sorts, this need for self expression.
I wish I knew.
But I'm blocked right now. I can't think of a single topic which compels me to share even a brief sarcastic comment or something bitingly witty. For all the dreams I have of being 'discovered' and asked to write a daily or weekly column or sorts, I panic and thank the stars that this lack of inspiration isn't going to mean that I'm out of a job.
It's like living in black and white. There is no colour, no joy, no real reason to smile. No inspiration. It is all as blank as the piece of paper just begging for some penned profundity.
It's like the name you can't quite remember; a date; an event. It's on the tip of my tongue but nothing comes out. It's that agitated feeling of being exhausted yet feeling too restless to fall asleep.
The blank piece of paper is the cruelest, mot unkind and stark reality I can imagine. Only I don't have to because it haunts me now.
I'm screaming inside for inspiration. But even the black and white is melting together into the most bleak, nondescript shade of grey which is taking over my thoughts like a vine that grows out of control, choking and killing everything in its path, or worse yet, turning it to apathy.
I can only hope that inspiration will be mine again soon to flood my dark dreary soul with the bright light of optimism, hope and brilliant creativity.
Until then the blank white page taunts me........