I want to write.
I want words to flow from my pen and cover line and pages and fill notebooks.
I want to sit in coffee shops with blank pages before me, unaware of the sounds about me, only focused on pen at paper, releasing the words of my heart.
I want to be a regular at the used bookstore, visiting old friends, meeting new. Smelling the exhalations of the worn stories, gently fingering their worn bindings.
I want to sweep into the library and borrow a gem that inspires the flame within my soul, urging me forward, fostering creativity.
I want to stroll on the beach sometime near mid-day rolling over words and phrases in my mind like the waves roll the pebbles on the shore.
I want to hole up inside on a rainy day with hot coffee and my warm little dog and pour out words as tears, slowly at first then from that place deep within that, when opened, gushes forth like a fountain.
I want to write but I don't, because I haven't found the story that demands to be told.
I have not uncovered those characters hidden in my creativity bank that beg to be sculpted into a book.
I have not amassed some great amount of knowledge and wisdom to share and make everyone's lives better.
I feel that the world doesn't really need me to write at all. Everything has already been said in many different voices. What weight does my voice have?
No, the world doesn't need me to write.
But I need me to write.
There is a part of me that craves it, like the instinct to breathe. I need to write like I need to breathe. And perhaps in simply writing, courageously venturing forward hand-in-hand with my creative side, I will stumble upon something wonderful.