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I used to write. I was never very good at it, but I used to pen something every day. Whether it be a quick note about the beauty of the rain or a bird's song, or a handful of pages for a short story or one of my unfinished novels. I don't write any more. I sometimes find myself with a paragraph forming in my head but then something in the real world happens to force it out of my head before I have a chance to commit it to paper or type it up. Recently I've begun to feel the loss of my writings. I miss reading over the words that I'd scribbled down. I miss forming sentences in my head and groping for a pen and a scrap of paper in my purse to jot them down before they were lost in infinity. I cannot always find the words to express myself now. It would seem that when I stopped writing, I also stopped thinking and viewing the world as a writer. I feel that loss acutely.