The Hidden Writer
It was still dark and awfully quiet.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sleep.
So I decided, after what seemed eternal turning in bed and reaccommodating pillows, to stop trying.
I got up and, in a strange mood, sat at the...
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The Hidden Writer
It was still dark and awfully quiet.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sleep.
So I decided, after what seemed eternal turning in bed and reaccommodating pillows, to stop trying.
I got up and, in a strange mood, sat at the computer.
It had been
ages since I had last given writing a shot, but I saw no reason not to play with words for a while.
After all,
it was only four in the morning and I didn’t have much else to do.
I started writing isolated sentences.
.
.
words or phrases that crossed my mind.
Colorless green ideas sleep
furiously.
.
.
.
It didn’t matter whether they made much sense or not.
That was not the point.
I have always
believed that writing is therapeutic.
.
.
.
a healthy emotional outlet; a simple way to catch oneself off guard
just saying exactly what one had been unable to say for who knows how long.
.
.
After about three quarters of an hour and one full page later, I finally started to
feel sleepy.
I turned off the computer and went t
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