Right now, at this moment: I feel it coming.
Perhaps some of you other writers know what I'm talking about - that gnawing, aching ball of words clawing to get out, to see the light of day.
I wish I had more time. I wish there were more moments like Monday evening where I wasn't exhausted - where my mind wasn't filled with heaviness.
Earlier this summer, I took to pen and paper. Wrote everything there - hopes, dreams, wonders, disappointments. Did it for awhile - and then [like always] schedules conflicted.
The journal waits on my nightstand, empty pages far outweighing the written ones.
On the way to work I have time to think, dwell. As much as the commute takes out of me, I notice the ability to quiet myself for just a brief moment. Listen. Pray. Most days, the tension seems to multiply instead of wane - wanting to create, wanting to watch words dance across the page vs. accepting the truth of minutes within the day.
I feel it coming. The hum of words dance around my head. Whispering, laughing, begging their story to tell.
I sigh, lift my fingers from the keyboard and my head to a new day. The sun shines through the clouds just moments ago lit-black by stars. Minutes once again gone - words once again tucked for another time.
Closing my eyes, I recognize the feeling still simmering beneath my bones. I can only pray it's still there when hours prove empty.
I'd love to know what you're feeling - where you are at right now. Leave a comment of first thoughts, those right under the surface of your daily expectations.