No Time is Write

More than anything else right now, I want to write. I want to disappear down a rabbit-hole with my laptop. I would swallow that red pill and tell those blue pills what I thought they could do with themselves.

Life, for me, is in the stories. Stories that make my life feel dull with their absence. I see fictitious people everywhere and I don't need any pills to induce or rid me of that. My characters chew on the shoe of my mind like a neglected puppy vying for attention. After all, I'm guilty on all charges. I have neglected much.

What I wouldn't do to lose myself to hours of writing. Where thoughts become people and places and lives. Where a story unwraps its self from my mind and that tiny courser blinks at me, ever ready to record my whims. I become a woman possessed. Chapters are written in hours that pass like minutes.

Stories I wish others would write cry for my attention like babies do mothers at ungodly hours. I wish others would write these because they are the stories I always wanted to read. These are my children because they are indeed laborious endeavours. How easy it is to create, how timely it is to mould. These trials matter not, because of the wonder of creation, the fulfilment of the craft. How I wish I had the time to write.

*sigh* Well, I guess it's back to my technical math homework I go. :s

Stella out!