.

I just woke up. From a dream.
I feel rested now, but nevertheless, I feel restless.

Because in my dream, in it I was writing; I was composing a piece, and in it, I had a smile on my face: this is a piece is great, I said to myself, this is great because you are implying things; you are showing and not telling. You are involving the reader; you are offering a couple incidences and you are beautifully tying them together, all implicitly. You did it!

But I woke up soon after this "You did it!" part, and promptly aggravated; it was all just a dream. And now, from this dream, I had no paper, no pencil, and absolutely nothing written down. So I got up, not willing to get some paper, a pencil, and try to repeat the writing process, and then went about my way.

But a real writer, he would have gotten that paper, that pencil, and he would have tried to repeat that writing process. He would have strained to get that dream down, even if it resulted in something from the ol’ noggin bursting. He would have strained, because that’s his job.

Which gave me a sad realization: I ain’t no real writer.

Even though, a few seconds after I woke up, I realized the dream was complete twaddle—that doesn’t matter. No, a real writer would have gotten something out of this dream.