To write. To write. To write. Why do I write. What is it with all of these pictures in my head that spin around like hovering tops. Nothing ever seems to touch the ground inside of my brain. Nothing ever is clear. It is always blurry.

Is it really a job or an occupation to write something down on paper or, in this day and age, to post it digitally for others to read. I mean, what is it that drives me to write. Well, if I were to answer that question, I would like to say that it would most likely be a fact that I am driven because I have no explanation other than that. I am driven. I need. I desire to write. I think that as time goes onward, my desire becomes all that more pushy.

I have many friends who worry that they are pushy or demanding upon me. I don't see why this is such a worry for them. Maybe, I should express my hidden secret that I am a late night writer. I should really tell them. Okay, well, these rants are not what I write all the time. I just enjoy writing something where the preparation time is not all that demanding. If I miss a day here and there, then so be it.

Well, I have established that I write because I must. Most committed writers will tell everyone the exact same thing. But what about those who don't write. Are they doomed never to write since they feel nothing that makes them want to write? Or can one be trained...interesting.

Why, I ask. Why me? Why have I got things in my head that I find not overly exciting to enjoy and too unclear to express? Over active imagination? Probably. Well, enough yabber tonight. Must sleep.