When I visit a book store, I see hundreds, thousands of books filled with millions, perhaps billions of words, and I feel like I can write something unique, something notable, something people will remember.
But, I can't stop. Compelled by passion, deluded with hope, no matter what I do. I must put pen to paper, grope for home on the keyboard and make more words: essays, stories, and (if I work really hard) poetry.
Here's something for the ages, I think, but likely, it's a momentary burst of creativity, a minuscule, microscopic speck of insight, flashing for a millisecond, then gone.