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I joined this site too many months ago. I posted one writing. And afterwards all inspiration was lost.

Then I wondered; how many people just lose inspiration, a craving, a love for something? I wondered if it was true, what they say, about depression and great writing. Did I want to do something drastically depressing to gain inspiration, that craving, and that love for writing I had once back?

Then I realized my writing was a reflection of all things in my small life; all the small things I crave and all the local gods I love. And that the reason for my lapse of creativity was the fact my eyes had not been open to see the possibilities. My mind had not been open to appreciate these wondrous events in my world. My heart had not been open to accepting the feelings that could have helped my writing.

And just like that....it all came back. I bought a new book and I wrote in it; filled the pages. I giggled like a school girl, I bitched like an unloved housewife, I loved like a voluptuous women with long legs, I talked like a replica of bond, and every time i wrote in my little journal, i was happier.

I knew why I had loved writing in the first place; it filled a void, it put me at ease, it was beautiful no matter how atrocious it was and the paper never screamed at me or told me I wasn't good enough. I am never content after i write; I am restless and childishly, indulgently, selfishly happy.

And that is why i continue to write.