(no subject)

I have such an immense desire to write. It's just...maddening. The only trouble is the lack of ideas, I can see the snippets and pieces, broken fragments of a dream and I walked across the campus and loved the wind.

My professor compared the weather to Wuthering Heights and perhaps it is like that. Windy and wild. Cold. And it's not the winter chill. Even though my hands are already freezing and my body's just the perfect temperature, I really do enjoy it. Some people are of fire or earth, and I more wind than water.

I dreamt last night of places I've been and was a person I never was, another character drawn out of my mind to tempt me.

I opened an old journal and read a few things and wondered if I'll ever be able to finish anything.