When you’ve got everything to say but nothing to commit to paper;

When ideas swirl but words refuse to materialize;

When you sit at your computer full of hope but end up despondent;

You write.

You write because you know waiting on the muse to strike is a fool’s game. And you have played the fool long enough.

You write about the struggle, because that makes it real. And you desperately want to feel like this urge to write will produce something real, not merely something ethereal.

Or you dance. Or sing. Or draw. Or paint. Or tinker. Or run. Or lift weights.

You do whatever the thing is that God put inside you to do that allows you to express the full range of your emotions, including rage and confusion and selfishness and vulnerability. Perhaps especially those.

You do it, even if you feel silly.

You do it, even if no one will ever notice.

You do it because what’s inside of you needs a place to roam and play and learn and grow and connect.

You do it, because you’ll go insane if you don’t.

You do it because that’s how you overcome the struggle.