A hoarder of paper, a keeper of pens--this is my life. When the clouds darken and roar; I write. When sunbeams streak across my door; I write. When the day is clear and inspiration strikes; I write. My life is not mine without a pen in my hand.


Empty pages often spill across my floor, their white lines so agonizingly blank and stale. My hand trembles underneath the weight of my trusted companion, words teasing into a seductive dance in my head. For a moment, that red line connecting hand to mind pales as the ink pools into a mass of desolate frustration. Blotchy anger welds my body together in a flash of heat, but determination breaks through the dam as beautiful colors spill across the page, my pen scrambling to catch up.


Waves of ink flow across the page, fingers tracing every crest and trough with faithful diligence. The earth trembles in anticipation for the consequences of my latest meddlesome prodding. A sleeping giant has awoken, and it will not rest until it has exhausted every source of inspiration; plundered every speck of imagination. And thus, I indulge its appetite, grasping this creature’s hand as I allow it to guide me down this road of improbabilities. A journey has begun that I hold no desire to end, no matter what may come my way. However, desperate for validation and trying to rid me of my golden touch, voices of doubt and reason whisper in the ditches.


Good thing I’ve learned not to listen.


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