June 19th, 2002

primary butterflies

(no subject)

I've never been much of a wordsmith; my brain does not want to put letters down onto empty white space. Once the words are there, I can rearrange, add and subtract with impunity: I am an excellent editor. Perhaps the palm reading I once got, telling me that I have a very small creativity line is true. I have no art skills. I don't create beautiful prose or poetry. I don't come up with incredible ideas to use lasers to write on the moon's surface. Usually I am at peace with that facet of myself, for I have many other skills: I take pleasure in the small things; I believe in people; I love and feel with all my soul.

But lately, I feel that whatever talent I've had with putting words together out of thin air has deserted me. So many thoughts run through my brain, and have for some time: butterflies, and I without a net to catch them. Perhaps soon, I will be able to put more of those butterflies down into words.
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    melancholy melancholy