Have you ever had the feeling come over you - the need to write down something. It isn't that I feel the need to write about my life. The exact opposite in fact. I feel the need to write a story. A story about something important, someone important. That isn't me. Here I am, sitting in my bed in my pyjamas, a dull day ahead of me and nothing in particular on my mind, but there is something nagging at the back of my brain telling me to write. But what about?

Should I write a poem? A glimpse into the way that I see the world. A poem about my room perhaps.

Seemingly meaningless objects lie scattered
A book thrown here
A stuffed dog there
A guitar lying dusty and untouched in the corner
Begging to be played
It's silent plea unheard.

Perhaps a short story. I used to love writing those. They would come so naturally to me. An idea would pop into my head and I would just start typing, my fingers taking over, not thinking about what I was typing but just typing away. Sometimes I would close my eyes and my fingers would take over completely. I would feel them hitting the keyboard and I knew that letters, words were filling the screen at my doing, but I was not entirely conscious of what was being written. My mind was in control of course, but it felt like I was a different person entirely. I would separate myself from myself, close my eyes and just drift away, hearing the keystokes, hearing the words going through my mind as though I was saying them out loud, and my fingers were just typing it all up without my willing them to.

Perhaps I will return to the novel that I have started to write. The one that I haven't looked at in months after spending half a month getting lost in it. I should never have stopped writing it. Somehow I knew that as soon as I stopped typing, as soon as I let my mind drift to other things, things like packing and moving and silly material things, I would never come back to it. It is sitting on my computer. Sometimes I open the document and look at it, read the first page and contemplate carrying on. But the characters seem like strangers to me now. I need to connect with them again, but I cannot bring myself to. It has been too long. I have changed and I am scared that they will no longer speak to me. I suppose that at some point I will have to find out.

I need to write something. I cannot let this creative stint go unnoticed, unrecognised, unfulfilled. And so I come here, to release my creativity, to open myself up, to let my mind and fingers take over and let myself go.