I lament the days past when I had millions of ideas, when I could sit down and write a story in an afternoon. I miss the feeling of finding a conclusion to a story that wanted to be told.
But now, I find that while the ideas are there, they struggle to reach the surface. And rarely to they reach any kind of climax or conclusion. They just putter around in my brain, waving, teasing, making me think they'll come to play. Unless they're lucky enough to escape through the pen, and even then, they don't seem to find an ending.
A hundred voices, screaming to be heard through ink and reality, but never to reach their destiny between the pages of a book.