An anxious feeling starts to churn deep in the pit of my internal reservoir, rising up to the surface, ready to burst forth with creativity. Some genius of which I am yet unaware yearns to be harbored within the pages of some great work, a work that some ordinary and yet all too extraordinary individual will connect with. To inspire, to encourage, to harvest the raw emotions of this fragile human existence which we call life. This is my ambition.
A little bored in biology last week. . . this is what my thoughts wandered to. Sometimes I want to spend the rest of my life sticking people with needles and setting broken bones, but then every so often I think I could enjoy a life of writing strange little blurbs like this one that no one would ever read, but I would feel better having gotten that strange urge out of my system and out into the world. or at least my own piece of paper.
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2 comments:
And this is why we're friends. Love you.
(caitlin)Wow, that was deep. You need to be a writer.
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