I think this is from some time around 2008. I found it while I was cleaning. Just for laughs, I am posting it up here. It's rather maudlin.
I wish the words would pour out of me but the story is frozen. Images of its beauty will flit before me and I am not fast enough to pen them. Such is my curse.
Dreams of literary brilliance flame in my mind but my uncertain hand stops me from writing them. I stumble slow and stutter over my efforts only to be seized with the great desire to cast them all aside. Frustration is not a sufficent word for what I feel. Perhaps horror and disgust for what had once come so easily is now choked and reduced to wretched scratchings of a squalid pen blighted by uncertianty and fear.
Perhaps this is my fate. To be an old woman in a young one's body, filled with fear that my work may never succeed to present my visions or messages.
Inside all of us a story burns to be told. We each have our own voice and medium to tell it. But what on earth is mine?