creating.

there is a story inside of me.

there is a girl in a smudgy world and a story that she needs to tell. there is a house with a history. a lifetime full of people who need the hope that this girl can give.

these things are inside of me, swirl within me like a whirlwind. i think about this girl, and her world, and her need for the story inside of her, which parallels my own. the details are swaddled in the blackest smoke and though i squint and swirl, they elude me.

who is this girl? how am i the one that has come to have her story deep within me?

i keep waiting for this magic, this greatness to overtake me and write itself out of me.

why do i feel the need to create? is this pulling an evidence of something greater, another creator? is there a god whose imagination and joy i feel compelled to imitate?

and if so, what happens if i fail?