At This Wedding As A Bridesmaid Its Actually Very Beautiful. Im Gonna Ask The Waiter What He Thinks Hold

at this wedding as a bridesmaid its actually very beautiful. im gonna ask the waiter what he thinks hold on

RPG’s be like

people talk about women being ‘emotional’ and ‘overreacting,’ but you don’t see a woman making an arch-nemesis out of an albino whale and obsessively chasing it down like a lunatic for 585 pages

The Words Will Dance Again

As a writer, I am fueled by and constantly search for an unseen force that is as essential to my well being as the precious balance of hormones and the tender whisper of neurological signals in my mind. It is that ethereal thrumming that undulates in my blood, that rush of something warm and cold, a sensation that leaves me sweating but also chilled. It raises the hairs on my arms, it causes the saliva to course in my mouth. It opens my eyes, it dilates my pupils, it opens my soul. Constantly I search for that feeling that even I, in all of my carefully crafted writing prowess cannot label; at best I can define it as inspiration. It is the song that sings in my chest, the voice that sparks the flame in my mind and choreographs the movements of my fingers. It guides my keystrokes, it moves my pencil. It urges the words to dance.

It is this feeling that I and no doubt other writers savor whenever we encounter it. Sometimes I feel her when I feel the rumble of buses and traffic go by. Other times I hear her when I hear the perfect chord, the bone chilling harmony. Other times I see her dancing and swaying in the throngs of paintings daubed by hands of the past. It is like an epiphany. It makes me want to sing and shout, it makes me want to fly. At times, it almost feels like that I and every particle within me is a breath away from flight. It is the spark of joy that only writing can bring, be that the spark that fuels the words or the flame that is fanned by a reading eye.

Sometimes, however, that feeling of inspiration is lost. Sometimes, she cannot be seen, heard, or felt. There are times of darkness. There are times where I call out into the shadows, reach out into the emptiness before me and desperately itch to feel her warmth. But there is nothing. There is cold, there is an echoing silence. All is hollow, my bones sagging and my blood trudging through me as if I was dead.

There are times when I fear she is forever gone.

But she is never gone forever.

So right now, you may feel lost. You may feel blinded, deprived of a sense of self. You may feel abandoned by inspiration. You may fear that never again will your pencil move in that perfect rhythm, never again will your keystrokes dance in that satisfying way. But inspiration will come again. You will hear her in the loudest of places where you fear you will hear nothing at all. You will see her when all around you is a dizzying array of color. You will feel her when you feel so much you fear your nerves will fray and die away. 

But she will come, and when she does, you will be ready. And the words will dance again.