Compulsion

I write about reading – read about writing. It seems I cannot get enough. It is something compulsive inside of me – an obsession. It takes over. Like a whirlwind, I throw down one sentence after another.

But it is never good enough.

It does not matter. The words spill onto the page no matter how trivial they may be. One word is as good as another. I string them together searching for the ultimate reason, the reason for putting them to paper.

But there is no reason.

I do it because I have to. An inner force compels me to plod along. If my mind is blank, this is what I write. I hope to awaken the spirits within – to create new vistas.

But it does not happen.

Meaningless words spew onto the page. I continue until the next idea springs forth. And if this does not happen, I continue searching – forever if need be.

Because I cannot stop.