If I could write creatively for just five minutes everyday, would that be enough? Would it be enough to get back on track and fulfill my destiny as a writer? The unrest I’m feeling seems to be pulling me toward that. I feel a heaviness in my chest. A hollow heaviness. How can something that feels so empty be weighing me down so much? The paradox of unfulfillment. So what is next? Do I blog away? Do just let 5 minutes a day kill the hunger pangs until the next 300 second fix?
I think in the back of my mind that if I just get started… if I just sit down and commit to 5 minutes it will lead to more. Like when two teenagers swear to each other that they will only kiss in the backseat of a parents car. Just kissing, no tongue, no touching below the neck. But then you know it leads to something more. Because deep down inside they want to, need to, have to – by biological imperative – go all the way.
That’s just how these things go. Maybe my creative genius will just get carried away with itself and do something truly great. That’s my hope anyway.