writing

The lines just look at me as if begging my hands to push pen to page, make ink marks across its wide open space. My journal sits by my bed, in the car, on my desk. Its quiet wait is still and patient, sometimes haunting, as it dares me to enter and offer up something new. The act of writing, a curious bird, as words spread wide against the blank page as if wings stretched across the open sky.

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Categories: Misc.

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