Today I sat down to write some notes to myself. I jotted a few things down and then my pen quit working. I ventured to the corner of the paper and made some circular colorless dents in the page. I got up, fumed over to the trash bin, and tossed the useless thing in the trash! Pens that don’t write are a major pet peeve of mine. One false move and they immediately have a new home with the stinky empty cat food containers in the bottom of my kitchen garbage can.
Today this little episode caused me to think about myself. Unlike that disappointing writing utensil, I’m full of ink… fluid thoughts fill every part of my mind and soul. The problem is that I tend to hoard them inside of myself because I am such an introvert. I shy away from revealing all of my joy, pain, and enthusiasm merely because it takes more guts to do that than I naturally possess. I’m ink without a pen, and that is about as useless as a pen without ink! So, I am stepping out, and ‘fessing up: I’m a writer, a thinker, a midnight inker!