Writing

Why? I feel a burning need to put thought into being, even if it's just pixels on a screen. I'm listening to Bloc Party and I'm burning up with the need to put my heart under a microscope and describe every gleaming facet and dark, bloody nook. I'm on fire, did you know I'm on fire?

Now the music's stopped, and the desire vanishes. Why? What makes me think I can do this better than anyone of the million other people? Writers are useless. You write. My parents write. Scientists write. And they do much more. Do I posses some hidden talent obscure myself and others. No. I don't.

Stop. I can't keep thinking this.

Turned Bloc Party on again, I can feel the desire flowing back into my veins. Left, right, left, right, left, right. It's a drug. I need a drug. Stop rereading, just write. right. Here's the climax, but I know after this -. It happened. It was too quick for me. Now, emptiness. Loneliness. And a fuzzy ringing in my ears.

One more time. I just need it one more time. Just to listen, just one more time.