The need to write is a fleeting experience.
It strikes and bullishly pushes itself to the forefront of your lobes. It lingers and fades gradually. You try to reconnect when the moment is right but the exact schema is gone. The words that were once a perfect scene turn into an incomprehensible ten thousand piece jigsaw. Grab it when it hurtles itself toward you or lose it forever.
Like many things in life, it hits when you least expect it. Your sub-consciences cares not that you have plates to clear in work or contend with adversarial coworkers. The longing to write hits like a junkie yearning for a fix. Injecting your soul onto a page through the needle of the pen and your blood the ink. It is something almost unique to writing, it is a profoundly personal stamp. A fingerprint of your psyche. A fragment of your being. Existent in that instant and moment and possibly never again. It is without collaboration, without group discussion and damn anyone's opinion of you, your work or your being. Your own opinion of the craft is all there is.
When there is no more need for elegant writing, just thousands of click-bait articles copying, sharing, retweeting fake news, the writer dies. Instant gratification combined with a laziness to think for ones self will be the death of us all.
