Today, somebody told me I could write.
It’s honestly felt like a lifetime since I felt inspired to sit down and write about life and my contemplations. But her very frank and outright opinion led me to think about how I once used to be able to sit down in front of this screen and ramble on about the day or what I thought. Has something in particular stifled this and snuffed this out of my daily routine?
I sometimes do wonder.
There is that novel that is waiting to be born.
There is that dream waiting to come true.
There is that parrot fish in me screaming to get out.