Thursday, December 18, 2003

It's one of those nights when all you want to do is write. On paper, with a really comfortable pen. And you want to think, and dance, and sing, but more than anything, you want to write, but you can't because you're at work.

That's how I feel right now. Exactly how I feel. I hate it. I want to sit down and write and write and write, but I can't, so I resort to this. And it's not the same. It's not the same as feeling my hand against paper with words flowing gracefully out of the pen, taking on a new shape, and a new demenor applicable only towards what is being written.

Very annoying. Very, very annoying.

I like my job, but I won't be with it forever. I always get the urge to write or paint when I'm at work and the means to do so evade me. Someday I have to have a job in which the creativity that builds up inside me over the course of a few hours can be released. I'm quite positive that I shall never be out of things to paint, or write. Every time I get one thing done, I have an idea for another, but there is yet more in the back of my mind that need to be touched upon.

Current Mood: okay