It's there sitting in the back of my head as I type these words. I can smell it, nearly touch it, I feel it caressing me just out of reach. The inspiration that I carry around with me pushes me to reach for it, I long to hold it in my hand and tumble it about on my finger tips. I feel drawn to it yet I cannot harness the power to make it flow. My words stumble about me and I try to pick them up like a ball gown polling about my ankles, I run clutching them in my arms. I grab on to the small strands grasping at nothingness and I want for everything. I urge myself each day that today will be the day I finally finally reach the unreachable, I will finally commit to my commitment. But no I stare out the window and I feel the pain or ever wanting, I long to know what success feels like and I beg myself to pick up the torch tomorrow and not let it fall. My heart aches for what I have not achieved but when I see it in the distance I shrink from the promise of failure and the possibility of success. I long to be a writer with the very fiber of my being and I long to actually put pen to paper and hope that one day I will finally have the courage to let go of my fears and hang on for the ride of my life.