A familiar feeling.

It seems to me that the most beautiful works of literature are written at times when the author is so crushed by circumstances that all they can do is pour out what little they have in their heart.

I know it's true for myself. I haven't felt the need to sit down and just write in so long. I find myself searching for scraps of paper, notebooks, pencils- anything so that I can just write down what I want, store it away, or tear it to pieces if I'm afraid someone will find it.

I hear the laughter from down the hall- filled with amusement and joy. It's a welcome distraction from the low whir of the old laptop that sits in front of me. I always say that this time of year is hard and at the beginning of it, I feel as though I'm lying. Yet here i am in the thick of it and I know it wasn't a lie. Not even close. I stare at the quilt that my office mate hung from the mailroom wall. The little rabbits faces aren't quite smiling, but aren't quite frowning. They merely... are.

I wish I could say that I merely "am" but I know that I'm not. I'm not quite smiling, but i'm too close to frowning to just be. The encouragement I receive from friends has been heard so many times before that I seem to just store it away in my mind for a time when someone else will need it. If it didn't work before, why will it work now?

But then why am I just storing it away for someone else? Do I hope that by telling someone else i'll be able to grasp it's evasive meaning?

I wish I were more poetic. Or maybe just better at putting together words. Or at least good enough to catch someone's attention and praise.

Maybe that's all I search for.

Praise.