Right. All Right. I write, and it's past midnight. Left, the pen, right there. And from my head, nothing comes all right!
Stiff, stuck, stopped and blocked. And then, I'm back to my computer – I am completely locked.
Right, All right. This is not poetry; this is prose. And yet – just yet – I feel the need to express myself freely, properly.
Right, all right. Nothing comes to my mind. Over and over I read different books wanting inspiration and then I break the rules of punctuation and the commas suffer and the periods suffer. And then, no inspiration – no motivation – to write.
But hey, it's ok, right? Over and over, the same words I write – and then, thinking I'm escaping from these rhymes, I do the evolution:
Right. All right. Nothing comes to my mind. And then – just then – I get away from the computer and grab a pen.
As I write, my fragmented thoughts become organized; as I write the same words on a different sheet of paper, shit happens – then, shit vanishes.
No, not right. In fact, this is completely wrong. You aren't reading this; this text doesn't really exist – but that's how my text is, and published with all the might and courage it shall be!
(P.S: What do you guys do when you feel your writing feels the same all the time? Leave me a comment.)
(P.S: What do you guys do when you feel your writing feels the same all the time? Leave me a comment.)
