In my mind I am a prolific writer, yet, my hands don’t write. Thoughts stream through consciously but immobility strangles the possibility of letters composed to tell a story. The world confounds me, my desires are set high upon a mountain but there is no inspiration. How can I get out of this rut? When I was 18 I didn’t know where I would be…I knew that I loved reading and writing. During the summers I would read endlessly living in the world the writer created. The inspiration would possess me to write and I would read my pages of work over and over again reveling at how good it was. My vocabulary was enough to keep interest but not enough to captivate. When I became pregnant the first, the second, the third, and fourth time I still didn’t know if I would be capable. Subsequently I just fell into a sea of despair. I started school and was inspired by my Public Speaking professor and my fellow classmates, they built me up to something that I was not ready to become. Something deep inside me told that I couldn’t do it and that it wasn’t possible. The intensity of writing takes precedence over creating worlds vivid with purpose–I begin and then I stop. Laziness must be the answer. If someone reads this maybe they could get in the car with me as my passenger and help me drive my way into the promises scrolled by my creator. Where do I go from here?