Lately I found myself to have become a compulsive writer. I often have these urges to just drop my brain onto a nice clean white sheet of paper. Feeling that if I don't release the gatherings of thoughts inside my head it will explode. And the last thing I need is for others to see what I am thinking without it first being edited appropriately for grammatical errors. There's no spell checking in the upper cerebral hemisphere. I pondered over it long and hard. Just what is my goal in the field of writing? It's just another statistical media of the "starving artist", only the supplies are much cheaper. I have always been one of those writers that will suffice with a napkin or crayon when the urge arises. So my conclusion to my pondering is such: My attempt in life: To write everything within me that is needed to be written To space it accordingly on the page To imprint it so it will never fade To bind it in a cloth worthy of touch To be opened by a stranger To have it adorn a dusty shelf To have it scribbled on by a child To have it be lost in an attic Then found for the next yard sale To be donated to Goodwill To be priced lower than its worth To then be bought by me Because I could afford it It will then once again adorn a dusty shelf