Have you ever felt your fingers itch with the intent to write something? Something that you could feel deep, deep down in your blood? Something you just knew, without having thought about it, could be something grand. I have that feeling.
I itch to put words on paper, feel the need to scratch at my fingers until the bleed. I need to write. Words of wisdom? Words of love? Words of compassion? Possibilities for the future? The sins of my past? I don't know.
I feel as though I should be blindly reaching for my pen. The only thing stopping me from doing such is that I already know. I know that once I begin to write the mood will be gone, dissipate like mist, escape my blood and leave my body feeling cold. I can never stop it, though I try.
So, instead I must suffer the feeling of my finger itching. I will scratch them and wait. I know the feeling must leave at some point and, as sickening as it is in my eyes, I am relived when the feeling is gone. I relish in its absence. I open myself to it.
I don't know what compelled me to do it... Okay, that's a lie. I know exactly what compelled me to do it, but that's besides the point. I did it. I just did it.
It was odd at first. Strange and unusual to me. Brand new, yet having been there all along, waiting for me to look. And I, brave little thing that I am, looked. Honestly, it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be.
I looked for a long time... And I came to the conclusion that...
SOMEONE ACTUALLY READS THE CRAP I WRITE!!
Now, I didn't think anyone actually read what I was writing, but turns out I was wrong...which doesn't happen often. I just want to say "Thank You!" to whoever has actually taken a moment to read what I've written.
Even if I lost your attention after the first 30 seconds.