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When Inspiration Comes {Writing Again}

Writing. Pen to paper. Finger to keys. Backspace. Space. Erase.
The ominous blinking line. Write something. Write something. Write something.
Hesitation. Excitement. Peace and pleasure. Wondering.
More than my own eyes. Yours. His. Theirs. Wondering.
Characters and detail, romance and adventure. Sadness and truth, reality and memories.
Every last drop of it.

The click, click, click of the keys, the glow of the letters in a dark room.
Hope bursting through, words spilling out.
It's about time.
Reflection. Amazement. Inconsequential rambling.
Stream of consciousness.
The song unsung.
Rhythm, texture, alliteration, allusion, alas. One word too few.
Judgement? Freedom. The first amendment. The internet. The duty to oneself.

Late. Early. A new day. A new start. A new page.
Perfect timing.
Writing? Breathing. Trying? Releasing.
No rules to follow, no games to play.
Me, myself, and I.
The line. The ominous blinking line.
Terror? Torture? Friend.
It's about time.

Do you know how long it's been since I've written? I don't even know how long it's been. Fiction, inspiration, poetry, plays. Any of it and all of it. My mind has had a clamp over it for quite some time, and the words have refused to flow. But now, now I'm ready to write again. And that makes me so excited.

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