An Itch

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.