The desire to write was all I thought about today. What to write I did not know. I still don't know but I must eventually succomb to such a desire.

Writing used to come easily. I could sit down at a computer or in front of paper with a pen and write. About what I don't remember but I would write. Tell fictional stories, tell true stories. Write about what I saw, write about what I wanted to see. It really didn't matter. All I truly remember was the ability to express my feelings through words, whether hidden or in plain sight. That ability has apparently left me high and dry. I no longer sit at a computer with ideas. I sit here wondering why I'm sitting here. What am I doing in front of this screen? There's no one to talk to; just space waiting to be filled with words that are not in me.

I've often heard the phrase "practice makes perfect". I have determined to write more, assuming that the phrase is true not only when it comes to musical instruments but also to writing. Who knows how this forceful writing will turn out but thee is only one way to tell.

So I must write. And write I will try.