The most frustrating part of writing is when you have an inspirational moment or thought, you can’t sit down and write, but when you do the thought is gone. It’s not like it actually is gone, forgotten, the spirit of writing it out has left me. I hate it above all. Everyone has writer’s block from time to time, but that’s only the first layer of Dante’s fearful hell. Losing the spike of inspiration is the eighth and unofficial layer as it is so horrific that no one dares to acknowledge it.
In my previous post I intended on writing so much more. My mind had drawn a beautiful story of how friendship saves life, brings back the identity, and how little is put into its true value. Everyone’s focus surrounds the idea of a perfect friendship; knowing each other so well that there only needs to be screamed “Vatican Cameos!” and the friend would understand. The desire for the endless trust is great, yet it takes more than just a couple of common interests for one to open up.
It’s the moment when you are there for someone while their heart is broken, when the tears are streaming endlessly and you can hear the sorrow in the cramped voice. The moment when you find the tissue instead of another person that can help, when you stay for however long it takes, regardless of how uncomfortable the position is. That is when your friendship begins.
Sometimes this is all I need. To ramble about my thoughts. My ideas are clustered at all times, I think too much, too little, am unfocused and wander off. Nevertheless, my work is not finished. This is not my final thought. It’s a beginning, and a good one too.