Not knowing what to write about is an uncomfortable feeling like an itch you cannot scratch. You can feel the inspiration, the ideas, and the words, just out of reach; and it tingles in the tips of your fingers and makes you clench your teeth as if trying to squeeze it all out. I imagine it will eventually pop like a balloon filled past its bursting point. And then there will be words and sentences, chapters and stories, flowing incessantly; those I never imagined before and those I knew were in the back of my mind all along. Then I will write, write, and write for no reason but the pleasure of it, the only reason why I should.
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