I miss writing.

I miss writing.

The rush of thoughts occupying that brain of yours fills me up. I can't remember the last time I wrote.

My mind's a blur.

I want to pick up writing again and be sure that what I write isn't mediocre or something that a kindergartner can write.

I want to feel again, feel so much emotion that in every sentence I can spot so much anger, angst, happiness or ecstasy that I am allowed to feel.

When I pick up a pen or type endlessly on my keyboard, I want every word, every sentence, every paragraph to matter. As if nothing else did, only my words, only my emotions, only what I feel for this or for anything that is of importance to me.

I miss writing. I miss the whole lot, the smell of a pen cascading upon the lines of a notebook.

I miss writing.