There is something about the taste of creativity on your tongue.
   It is sweet, dripping from your lips and saturating your heart with saccharine elation.   Conceived beneath your eyelids, tiny ideas seek development, seek birth, seek a life of complete fulfillment. Stretching for the opportunity to change the world, they seep deep into rivers of humans blood and course through the veins, rejuvenating, until they reach the tip of your poised fingers.  They pry at your will until your itching hand gives way and you reach for a pen.
  No, once the virus of an idea sparks in your mind, there is no stopping it.  Just as a raging forest fire started as but a tiny flickering flame, so too will the little idea consume you.
  And it is wonderful.  Sugar that coats the world with imagination and allows an explosion of growth.  Tender word, how it shapes the universe with its unique view.  The ink bleeds into a blank sheet of paper, and suddenly your fingerprint has been pressed.   
   There are no limits.
   And you can call it your own.
  Which why I crave that sweet thing called writing.