I write a lot–volumes in fact. I have notebooks, journals, scraps of paper, and computer documents full of writing. I write for all the regular reasons: catharsis, opinion, reflection, good old-fashioned storytelling. Just like most people with a blog, I like to read the sound of my voice. I believe I have something interesting to say.
Some weeks, I am drowning in words. I write full on essay-length posts. I take in a song or scripture or emotion and spew forth poems. I choke on a thousand ideas, unable to process and capture them all.
Then I have days like today, where I am floating atop words that won’t come to the surface. I ride waves of vocabulary but am never taken under. I can not dive below the surface long enough to lose my will to the depths necessary to create something worth reading.
On days like today, I would rather die than not reach the words. It is no fun to float indefinitely, knowing that help isn’t coming and death unattainable.
How crazy is that–to want death by suffocating in words and rhyme?