Post It

A writing day comes and goes in oblivion. By nightfall, you sit with shreds of words strewn about you and wonder how you can squander your gifts like this. In the depths of your chest, in that little hollow that always fears until filled, a new character stretches her limbs and looks around. The trees begin to grow around her, the promise of adventure aroud the corner, and as the story twists and turns in the tiniest curls along your rib cage, you begin to sense again the awe of discovery. It's buried deep, so deep in your lungs it's like you'd forgotten how to breathe but there it is, just a tiny morsel of a story, but there, indubitably there. 

You close the books on the squandered day. Think maybe morsels can build mountains, too.