Trapped

Talk to the screen, soothe the keyboard into submission. Arch your back, or shower and start fresh. Crumple up the mistakes into paper balls and shoot your way to the NBA. Different methods abound, it is hard for some people to write. I would wager that most people feel a slight tinge of discomfort at the notion of writing. I wish to hand write more often, it is an obsolete hobby. Big words and even bigger ambitions drive my style of writing, or so it seems. I just don't care anymore, I need to let out some steam. Exercise is a hard word to spell for me apparently. Soon enough I will hop into some new digs and take a stroll. Walk the desolate alley way behind my house and take it from there. Writing has always been inside of me, waiting patiently to be unleashed upon thirsty readers. I would hope there is a reader. Maybe that is what writing is all about, just hoping there is another person. Writing can be another of the many tools humans use to connect back to their roots. The way is a path that is easy to stray off of, but hard to stay on. At least for me it is. But the way is like writing, and it is without much pressure, effortless, and seamless. Those are aspects of the way as I understand it. There is much to write and much more to think. The unifying theme here is that when I am left alone to swim amongst my own regurgitated writings, without the slightest hope of anyone out there ever reading them, I feel trapped. I also feel enclosed by many other issues and circumstances that I wish to liberate myself from. But before I can run I must learn to crawl. We will catch up soon.