Sometimes if I haven't written in a while it builds up in my throat like some sort of acid reflux. I'll be sitting somewhere and in my mind is this complex and seemingly over-reaching plot that I'm designing and it burns my insides that I haven't told it yet. But at then sometimes the most I want to do is tell it to myself. I let the story unfold in my mind in spectacular three dimension and it is absolutely fantastic and it bothers me so damn much that when I go to write I can take pages just to describe this characters face or the location but it would be useless. There are so many details in life and I find myself ever disappointed at the lack of reach that language can provide.
Not that it cannot describe our environments.
If I felt like it I could take the time right now to describe the folded maroon sheet that hangs over the window in the room I'm in; blocking out the ever bright and inquisitive morning sun. I could tell how it was hung from corners carelessly picked that create a type of triangle that hangs with an extra corner facing down. I could take the time to describe the entirety of the darkened room in which I sit but it would take so much time and patience. And that's the real problem. While I may want to express the absolute wonders of the world around me or the world inside my head that I've just made up because I've got five minutes and nothing to do but wait no one would take the time to read it.
I surely wouldn't. It's silly and useless and just extra.
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