Remembering about writing

I just purposely took a look at a brown paper covered book in which I used to write stuff. It lay among the many books which lay on my table like the compulsive shoppers at the Mall. Just there, thinking that they were actually satisfying themselves os someone else... I used to write stuff. Just stuff. What I felt like, what inspired me etc. My poems , my short stories which were terribly short...
I realised that I hadn't written anything creative in the past 8 months. Of course a couple of rap verses, but no prose, no poem. I had a lot of inspiration and and a lot of thoughts, But I really did not get the time. I am honest. Some say if you really wanted it , you coulod make time. I agree... may be it wasn't a priority, or may be I didn't want it as badly as I wanted to breathe (analogy courtesy: Socrates).

I sat on the bed with the book .
I had been reading everyuthing else but my text books for the past pone week - since the time I had got study holidays.
So I sat to write. And I wrote. I wrote about what I want to write.
I wrote that I had not written in a long while.
I wrote what I felt.

Felt good to write again. I am not a great writer. But I write. Who can stop me?

By the way, the largest number of posts were posted on my blog in 2007. Perhaps there is a correlation?
No.