In the back of my mind an idea is itching. It's one of those itches that you might feel moreso in the back of your throat (the one where it tickles, and yet itches). You'd keep swallowing to realize that that sensation will not go away--even after drinking a glass of water; but this idea in the back of my mind...it haunts me.
It all started with a dream. A dream in which I thought to be buried deeply within my unconsciousness. I thought that it was going to be just a dream, rather it made me think...I thought it might've held the key to the number one answer in which mankind asks daily....the question in which we ask ourselves over and over and over again. The question in which there may be no answer to: What is the purpose to life?
I want to write this idea out: not for the sake of answering the question, but for the soul purpose of trying to figure out my life, as a writer and a person.
I feel that most of my ideas form from a dream, or a thought, or an unknown reason...And those thoughts tend to itch at the back of my mind, waiting to be written, waiting to breath life. As a writer, I must question a lot of things and do my best at making them clear to myself and my audience.
And it all starts with: What is the purpose to life?
The outcome is different to each person.
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