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 re-accommodating 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 re-accommodating 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
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