Somewhere, buried beneath my layer of chocolate-turned-padding, there is a story waiting to be written. Waiting to be set free from the prison of my mind and to give life to the pages of my notebook.
I know it's there.
So I open my netbook, click on Microsoft Word, and poise my fingers to type.
To release my story. The clock ticks, minutes pass; minutes never to be retrieved. The screen remains blank.
And so I head to the kitchen, boil the water, and prepare a coffee. I take a chocolate bar for good luck. I have to climb up to get the chocolate; I had hidden it in the highest cabinet to avoid temptation... doesn't work.
I started a blog in the hope of getting my creative juices flowing. Another mode of scribbles. I keep it up for one day; I keep it up for two.
And then I forget about it.
And then I remember.
I wish could be consistent with my writing, with my studying, with my life. Yet I have an assignment due in a couple days and dozens of tasks on my to-do-list, tasks hastily scrawled and then relegated to the bottom of my purse.
Here's my entry for today.
Pipe where my creative juices flow? Still clogged...