Want to Write

I want to write. No, I need to write. And yet every time I sit down to type something up, the words hide in various corners of my brain, sneaking into the shadows, refusing to show themselves.

Right on the tip of my tongue or fingers or brain lurks the words to the best poem or song or story one has ever heard or read. It's there. I can feel it, taste it. I can almost touch it, feel it caress me. And then is disappears again, playing this game with me, driving me to the edge of sanity.

Or would it be the edge of insanity? I'm uncertain. Is there a difference? I believe the edge of insanity would border or share the edge of sanity, therefore making it the same. So, I could simply say it is driving me to the edge.

But the edge of what? So many edges I have walked along. The edge of heaven and hell, good and evil. Edges are so much fun. Such thin little lines. One step in either direction dictates everything and yet nothing at all. One step can bring you closer to everything you desire, or further away from it, or perhaps closer to what you desire yet further from it at the same time. Odd. Yes, definitely odd.

But, most things which involve desire can be categorized as odd. Or perhaps it's only things which involve love. No, love would be considered an insanity, not an oddity. But desire? Passion? I choose not to use odd for those. Those are special. Those are life. Those are what edges are made of.

Every time you walk along an edge it is because there is something you desire on one side or the other, or perhaps on both sides of the edge. This is what makes the edges so exciting. I think this is why the words hide from me. They enjoy watching me teeter on this edge. It excites them.