I want to write.

All the time.

Subjects flit in and out of the periphery of my consciousness, to be replaced, overlapped and fused together by others.

I sit, silently cursing my nonchalant, arrogant response to what one could consider the seed of a brilliant insightful piece; the literary equivalent of a butterfly catcher devoid of a net, that awakens to find himself in a field in springtime and can only watch as everything he has ever desired swirls around him, yet can do nothing but watch helplessly.

At times I wonder if the humorous overtones that I so deftly deploy in the majority of what I produce serves not only to avoid serious criticism from the audience, but as a smokescreen to my own flailing self-confidence. A topic of utmost gravity becomes a shadowy figure of it's own possibility, not only in my mind, but the mind of the reader, and sometimes I am powerless to stop it.

The meandering, verbal journeys produced by those butterflies should at times be allowed to roam free, no matter what the subject, or the cost.

At times I want to write for nothing other than the sheer joy of creating. I simply long for the journey. Not for the destination, or the origin, but the meandering sprawl of everything in between. To walk slowly along a stream; to stand silently, omnipotently above a neon city at night; to lay sprawled on dusty, red clay as we did as children and watch ants scurry; to touch someone's hand for the first breathless time, and everything in between.

All I need is a net.

The rest is up to me.