I scribbled something on a piece of paper today and shoved it into my pocket; then showed it to my co-worker….This is what it said. “I stopped writing for a while…consistently…and I ached all over. It almost darn near killed me. No can do again. It doesn’t matter now whether someone wants to steal my work….not meant for me to hide my light under a bushel, but shine my light before men…and women. It doesn’t matter whether I’m depressed or marooned on an island….I can’t let the words escape from me. I can write my name in the sand with a stick or write them with my finger on rolling clouds in the sky. My words disappear being whisked away by a slight gentle breeze. It’s who I am. Dying would be not writing at all or never being able to write again. I’ve decided it. I’m sure of it….