I struggled through 4 years of college to write. I kept going to school, through a near-death medical emergency, a subsequent heart attack, and a lengthy recovery. I kept going because I was driven to write.
But I don't write.
Words, sentences and stories tumble around in my head constantly. I never put them to paper.
I mean to. I plan to. I just don't follow through.
I'm not sure what is going on, but I need to get past it. I need to make myself push through this place. The stories are inside and they need liberated.
For three or four years, my Mom and I talked about taking a trip to the town where she was born and lived until she was 11 or 12. She wanted to look around. She wanted to tell me stories. We planned it. We dreamed about it. We talked about it. We never did it. She passed away and we will never take that trip. Every time I pass the exit to her town, I remember the things we never did.
I need to write while I can.