The Ink In Our Veins

I know that the pages of life are constantly turning.  With all of the hustle and bustle of our daily routines, weekend plans, and summer relaxation, it’s sometimes impossible to write something that we’ve never written before.  Our pen repeatedly scribbles the same old lines, so often in fact, that we should make an investment in transfer paper.  Then we could save some time later.  It’s rare for our ink to find itself in new patterns.  Our vernacular includes nothing original.  How do we not long for refreshment?  A new pad or at least a new pen?  But we don’t think that way.  And the reason is: we don’t see ourselves as authors.  At best we’re just scribes who copy what fate tells us to pump out.  At worst we’re typewriters; only a tool for others to write with.  It is overwhelmingly uncommon for one of us to recognize that, hey, we’re not freakin’ typewriters;  we’re the ones sitting at them.  We have the power to act, to opt, to write.  We fail to realize that not only are we allowed to create, but we’re encouraged to.  Creation is in our design.  It’s in our blood.