The sky is blue and the page is white and I'll try to write tomorrow, I suppose. Because as lovely as the journal would look with the loops and swirls of my imagination scrawled across it, the outside world promises warmth and light and the flowers do not care about how many adverbs I use. The birds in the treetops sing melodies more complex and lovely than any sentence I could hope to construct, so why should I bother? The flowers will smell just as good without the right adjective to describe them, and the air will still be fresh even if my ideas are not. The vines snaking across the gutter knit themselves together in living tapestries—vibrant and intricate and far more engaging than any plot I could formulate. So why fuss with a struggle that will end in disappointment? Why bother? [hr] The sky is grey and my tea is thin and I never liked trying to write in a coffeeshop, anyway. People bring a bustling noise that hangs in the air, clouding the atmosphere I was so certain would inspire me. Snippets of overheard conversation wind into my thoughts, scattering the tentative ideas gathering at the fringes of my mind. The interruption clings to me like a watertight film, barring me from bathing in the currents of inspiration. Silence isn't much better, and I suspect distractions aren't even the problem, but what else is there to do? What else, but to take watery sips of a unsatisfying beverage and promise myself it'll be better at home? I'll [i]write[/i] at home. Later. That's the key. Later later later. The lock can stare me in the face, but I'll open the door later. I'll behold the awaiting riches later. [i]Why bother?[/i] [hr] The sky is silver-clouded and your smile is gold and your hand in mine is as warm as the satisfaction of a well-phrased comparison in a sea of mediocre similes. Your smile is delightful, your laughter infectious, and under the influence of your enthusiasm I say something I haven't said in months. [i]I'm a writer.[/i] It slips out like a confession. The whispered admission of a sinner, sliding into the space between us before I can stop it. But your eyes are dazzling, and they seem to believe me, so I do my best to ignore the voice at the edge of my mind, the one that whispers [i]liar, liar.[/i] Can I call myself a writer, really? When my pen hasn't seen words in ages? When the only world I've played in is the dull, winter-burdened one surrounding us? When I sit at my desk for hours on end, and all I have to show for it is a heap of ideas somehow worse than this one? Am I still a writer if I do not write? [i]Why bother? [/i] [hr] The sky is blue again and the page is still empty but your voice has been added to the chorus of birds outside my window so [i]why should I bother[/i]. I can always write later— [i]liar[/i] And gorgeous days were made to be enjoyed— [i]liar[/i] And the sun upon our intertwined fingers is just as soothing as the cadence of pen on paper, of fingers on keys— [i]liar[/i] And birdsong is much more pleasant than that voice in my head that tells me how rubbish this not-story is, and that I really don't need to write anything anyway— [i]liar[/i] So I'll just go outside and write later. [i]Why bother[/i] The sky is resplendent in azure and ivory and the garden is just as dazzling but all I can see is a blank page. I guess that means I'm still a writer.