To pen a thought is a daily quest. I search for the perfect sentence in the abyss of my mind, it elludes me like a jellyfish in the night. I feel like I am constantly battling my mind. Not for control, but rather for focus on the task at hand. Attention disorders, a mixed blessing, we shower under a continuous torrent of thoughts. How easily they slip between our fingers as we eagerly grasp at straws.
The greatest accomplishment a writer can feel is bottling a thought before it vanishes. How many times do we stare into the night chasing our words like smoke into the sky? We would weep from the effort except for the need to save the life of the precious parchment beneath our hand. So instead we sentence that piece of paper to a life of second class. To bear and hold an imperfect thought in replacement of the one we lost. The one we will miss forever.