Imagine taking a metal pole. Ok, now imagine that this is the smoothest and most quality piece of metal you have ever laid your eyes on. You are afraid to touch it, in fear of blemishing the perfection of its premier surface. Now, imagine that the pole has been dropped into a bucket of oil. You try to grab it to harness its power but you can’t get a grip on it and it always slips away from you. You want nothing more than to wield this manufactured masterpiece but you know you can’t. This is how I feel sometimes about writing. It’s like a bug in my head that is constantly skittering around my brain, dancing along the neurons and sparking them to try to accomplish something, anything. You can never grab it, though, until you finally get enough motivation to ignite the neurons to the point where that bug is fried to a crisp. This is how it feels sometimes. Most of the times. Maybe I’m just lazy.