Thoughts on the Act of Writing

Thoughts on the Act of Writing
I will write this now and let the words flow out of me. My pen will bleed ink, liquid sorrow and beauty and experience and joy, and my red life will pour onto these white pages.
Perhaps I will write again about heartache that is not mine: it’s too romantic and fictional not to do so. Everyone knows pain, whether it be physical or emotional.
Or perhaps I will approach it from the opposite end of the spectrum and scribble about the initial act of tumbling down headfirst. Everybody is in love with love, after all.
The truth? I don’t know what to write about. Am I a bad writer if I sometimes lack inspiration? I hear all the time about how if I want to improve, I should be willing to work consistently. Yet, it shouldn’t feel like a chore…
And how do I write something new, a innovative concoction of words from my mind? Themes are universal and we constantly rewrite odes to all of these common concepts: death, friendship, pain, revenge, joy, and, yes, love (and many more, of course).
I’m looking for freshness.
Am I able to achieve such a quality?
I suppose we will see in the pieces to come.

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