Input

It makes sense that one cannot create something from nothing. A river without a source will dry up. A train without coal will stop running. A writer who does not read will stop writing. This has probably been said in more than one way, more than one time over the years, but I am now certain that it is true.

In the midst of being a good student, friend and sister, I seem to have lost the time to enjoy my former love. I have said before that we find time to do the things we love, but that is not always true. If it gets buried deep enough, for long enough, we can induce a sort of pseudo-forgetfulness. I know for a fact that I love reading, would spend all day doing it as long as the material was interesting. Fiction and fantasy to me were freedom and escape. Worlds undiscovered took me away from the struggles of my day and delivered me into an otherworld. But, I lost sight of it. I am now in the constant pursuit of good grades, rationing out my time to one organization or another, and filling the rest of my time with juggling friendships and ignoring my personal problems. In all of this mess, my love is still true, but it is neglected.

If I am willing to neglect it, then how true can it be?

That is a question for another time. What I am commenting on is my observation that, with the decline in my reading, i have also started writing less. The ideas that used to inundate my mind have now trickled down to the same, repetitive, frightening nightmare. Just one. And what's worse, I cannot even put the tale to page. All colors, actions and emotions fade to dust if pen dare approach paper, or finger touch keyboard.

There is a connection, a strong one. If you wish to do one, then you must do the other. If you do one, surely the other should follow.

I'm sure there is more to say on the subject, but I may soon become delirious (I'm tired, so sue me.). So, until inspiration or boredom next strikes my  idle fingers, I bid thee adieu.