Stress can be like a drug (theoretically), even to the point that, when you're drained to the point of exhaustion, your mind is still
active. You almost hallucinate, and your hands itch. Your mind itches even as your eyes slowly fall closed, inordinately heavy, kept closed by the feeling of thick molasses over your eyes. And in this state, you write. It just comes out. Pieces that are nothing but atmosphere. Stories without names. Poems only formed by sentiment without action.
Sometimes, your heart aches to write. At times, you give in, and apparently completely misunderstand your own result. More comes out of one work than what you put in -- this is the ideal. Provoking thought and new connections.

There are more senses than just the five tangible ones, after all. You develop a feel for it. For time. For writing. Just like working with clay, the final form remains unknown until it appears - it shapes itself. Why are endings so difficult to actually write? I wonder.

But disregarding the mindless babble, I'm a Californian since five years ago from Maryland. A junior in college - international studies/political science majors. Any more than this (or even this, really) is not of much import. The person doesn't matter as much as the work, oftentimes. At least that's how I like to function.

I hope you find something that you enjoy. If you do, or especially if you don't, please review so that I can improve my writing in general. Thankye kindly.