Sultry summer nights

Nights like these, you just cant write. Your thoughts go 180 mph. Strands form and die away in smoke before you can braid them into nice-sounding words. One leads to another, until you have a twisted ball of yarn in your hands, not knowing where to begin and whether to end. Sometimes, a few persistent ideas pull at your fingers but you do not want to give in to them, do not want to write to one person, for one person, write about the one thing your mind wants you to. So instead you run around in your ahead chasing after formless ghosts to satisfy the niggling craving at the back of your head, the want to write, the addiction that keeps you up and staring at an empty white page while the cursor blinks waitingly. Everywhere and nowhere, you wander, wondering. Nights like these, you just cant write.