Questions

How can writing can be so simple at times, and other times it is too complex for me to unwind at any reasonable pace?

After all, how do you capture all the colors of the wildflowers in black ink? How do you display all the wistful strains of the violin playing inside your mind? How do you demonstrate the enchantment of a sunbeam dancing across the floor? What brings a reader to fully grasp the vast emotions contained in a single line of poetry? What makes it possible to pin your heart to a page and still remain whole?

Why is it so difficult to bring ideas, emotions, images from the mind to the fingertip, without distorting their original intent? Where is the part of ourselves that knows perfectly how to express what we feel, see, hear, smell, and desire to say? Who can begin to unravel the mass of webs that I myself cannot begin to fully comprehend or produce?

When will I be able to free this wild creation of my imagination?