Writing comes to me naturally like breathing, but tonight is different. I spent hours staring at blank pages, fearing my own concocted theory that I might be losing my creative juices. I cannot let that happen. I simply won’t allow it. I would rather wring my brain and extract every last drop of distorted images than sit here and stare at these empty pages. Go on, hand me a paper and pen, and I will write you a letter, a love song, a sonnet.
I was born to write, and even if you don’t believe it, I will never stop writing.