Wish to be Weaving

  

   Sometimes all I want to do is write something, I want to dive in and have the words fall from my finger times like rain running off the eves. I want to wash the world away until nothing is left save my pen and I. I want to be swept away to some far off place and make it near enough to touch. I want to feel the rush of adrenaline when the hero, with myself beside him, fights to life and love. I want to feel the butterflies when she dances the last dance with him. Taste the blood in my mouth at a back handed blow. Smell the pine and cinnamon and the wood smoke from the castle Yule log… I don’t want to sit and academically think of what could happen, I want to be there I want to write it and feel it and see it clear as a sky in midsummer. How do I make it through brain storming and research when all I long for is that rush of discovery and creation? I tire too quickly of spinning and the sorting of many colored threads, I want to weave the stories at once, though I expect they would be poor at best if I were to do so, that is if they were ever finished at all.