silveraven

writer's block stinks. i always have an idea of what it is that i want to say. i knit sentances together as i sign into my account. alliterations and similies abound around my thoughts, fleshing out what it is that i want to say, then my muse snatches it away, laughing, almost cackeling as she does so, as if my words are not meant to be posted for mere strangers to read on the internet. are my thoughts meant to be kept private? are my hopes in vain? what is the point in having an online journal if i can't ever be satisfied with what it is that i am able to write? what is the point when, as soon as my fingers touch the keyboard all that i was going to write suddenly becomes incomprehnsible, intangible even? oh well...some day i may be able to retain some fragment of what it was that i wanted to say, and then i will be able to say it.