I’ve not forgotten, merely rested. My fingers ache, but I shall continue to write. My hands, they tremble with anticipation. They feel the words around them, and I must satiate their needs. I grab one word, then two, then I slowly mend them into sentences. My hands are far from satisfied. They begin to grab more and more of these delectable words. Sentences soon become paragraphs. My hands, they have become full. I rest my hands in my lap, and begin to digest the story they have created. A wonderful tale of life has been placed right before me. I have forgotten long ago about this story, yet my hands have told me like it was yesterday. I was once a writer. A writer with an ambition to create the most beautiful symphonies. Now I am nothing more than an amateur. I no longer deserve these beautiful, delicate words. I am not that person anymore.
