There are days when the world seems to slough off me, when responsibility and life become part of the background, unimportant and seemingly forgettable, if only I could focus on words on the edge of release. It is on these days when I want nothing more than to write until I am drained of all that is inside of me, till pages are splattered with my thoughts and a deepening feel of me. Yet my sense of duty crowds in, work a prior claim on my time, an obligation that overrides any sense of creativity bubbling to escape the confines of my cubicle.
It is maddening to sit at a computer all day, wanting to write, but unable to because I have to type work things, I have to type all day, but none of it is what I want to be writing, none of the work I do is for me. My inspiration dries up as I work, the moments slipping through my grasp to be lost amidst the endless facts and instructions I give my offices, my dreams garbling into unintelligible wisps of ideas drifting out of reach.
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