I dream about writing.
When I'm sleeping.
When I wake, in that dreamy half-sleep,
I think of the things I'm going to write about -- the things I have to say, to the world, to my self, to my friends.
To my not friends.
To the friends I haven't met yet.
I don't think I have any enemies, but if I do, then to them, too.
But when I fully awake and settle into the computer ... or my journal ... other "things" get in the way. Other emotions that block my writing behind a barrier of 'what ifs' and the bricks of 'you're not good enoughs.'