The Writing Bug

One night a writing bug bit me

I woke up from my deep slumber

I enjoyed the bug bite

The bug took me to people and places

The bug continued to bit me

It often writes impromptu

It has limited imagination

Often it knows the beginning, but not the end

The bug loves emotions, more than reasons

It is often in a hurry; often it is repetitive

Howsoever simple the story is, the bug feels happy to tell its stories

Books are the bug's best companions

The bug often floats in the nanosecond digital world

And wonders, can’t imagery emerge in moments of idleness

Can one see beauty in slow-moving butterflies

The bug doesn’t want to lose the ability

To endure long shots, slow dissolves, and sustained monologues