Evidently, in my mind I see the savant type of writer...the wildly impassioned, temperamental genius who needs absolute silence and strangely beautiful, elusive muses to be inspired to create. Evidently, I have coveted this image of a writer who needs extremes to let the words flow; only if the end result is from a deep, unique, almost spiritual place can it be considered beautiful prose. And once the train of thought has been lost, it is gone forever, banished to creativity hell and mourned from the deep recesses of a brain who only cherishes and respects a thought at that moment, instead of nurturing it into fruition forever. I have seen writing purely as art, instead of work, without realizing that it only exists as art in my mind and is glorified in that shadowy place alone...to share it, which will probably alleviate a multitude of my frustration, I will have to work at it, chipping away at this rock of writer's block like an unglamorous miner instead of a ethereal, wispy fairy who waves a magic wand to make lovely little words appear. Which is irony at it's best, because while fairies are pretty and magical, they can be crushed like bugs...a characteristic that I absolutely don't covet.

Evidently, I need to come out of my mind a lot more and give it a go in the real world for a bit.

I want just one word, or maybe a few, in your hand writing...a few words from you to me. So that I can tattoo it on my soul. Or at the very least my skin.