How does it feel to not write?

It feels like creeping cold seeping under a unused closet door. A closet unopened for many months.
As I recall, this walk in closet was filled with many things, some recycled treasures, some yet to be discarded; and yet, underneath it all, a masterpiece or two. To open it would mean reconstruction and a thorough deep cleaning; a chore I’m not looking forward too.
Though it’s easier to keep this door closed and yes, forgotten and though it may bring some form of comfort, I cannot fight back a familiar sensation that seeps from across the room, entwining my legs and through my body finding its way into the inner recesses of my soul.

From a chill to a beckoning, luring me into a world all its own, of vividly painted rainbows, dancing birds and swaying daffodils. Singing dogs and laughing cats playing on thirsty grass under an enchanted tree.

From time to time we take time out of our busy day, looking into the heavens longing rain.