What is it that feeds this desire to write?

This need I seem to have, yet I can’t get anywhere with it? What is it? Laziness? Lack of ideas? Motivation? Why should I? I don’t know. I do know, for some unknown reason that it is some part of me. Lately, I’ve been really stressed out, depressed, frustrated. I’ve been trying to see myself as a non-writer. All I can ask myself then, is what am I? What’s left? I feel hollow. It’s really like something is missing.

Am I afraid of the work? Am I too worn out? What is it that’s holding me back from really going for what I NEED to do? Maybe I need to spend less time thinking about the past, present and future, and start WORKING toward this writing thing. Even if it never amounts to anything but a pile of paper and a new way to annoy my friends, I feel incomplete without it. Nothing defines me as much as denying reality, seeking the fantastic.

I make a promise to myself that I will not quit. I will not give it up. Even if it sucks snowballs.