think ink

i am aching to write tonight, but i don't feel i have anything particular that i would like to write about... this drives me some very sure form of crazy.

maybe some of you who actually enjoy writing will understand this... but there are nights when my hands will literally itch or ache to write, to hold a pen. sometimes i can absolve that feeling by playing the piano (as i find that writing and piano for me are often similar prescriptions) - but many nights nothing will do except some sort of writing utensil, held steadily in my right hand, braced between my third and fourth finger, guided by my thumb, and moving freely over the remnants of some expired tree. there is no pattern, no particular thread i have been able to trace through my days in order to discern the catalyst for these urges... and, it's not even that important of a thing to try and spend time discerning. but the absence of such a pattern or thread has led me, at least for the past three years, to carry a plethora of pens with me in my purse, at all times - as well as a pad of stickynotes... and usually some sort of journal as well. but then, any surface will do, really. the backs of receipts are fair game, as are fast-food napkins, and the occasional discarded gum wrapper... and then of course, if resources are even more scarce, there are hands and arms, mirrors, and even the rubber soles on certain shoes. i guess, to someone who likes to write, the entire world's surface is a giant piece of paper... in the same way that any artist interprets or transposes their medium into the everyday, the very air they breathe.

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just a late night thought.

writing = fun.

herego..... not writing = NOT FUN.

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i'm tired. goodnight.