A Story Inside Me

There's a story forming inside me, waiting to be told. It begs to be released, but every time I try to write it I only choke it. This story whirls inside me, bouncing from my arm to my knee to my neck and back again. Every breath I take lets a little of it go, to the point where I fear to breathe should I lose anymore.

My soul is a lock and my fingertips the key, but they never find each other. Lost is one and found is the other. One day they'll find each other, I live in distress of that day. Because when they are both found and I am unlocked and my story is gone is when I will be gone, also.

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I hope this adequately describes how I feel about writing. Like every story I let go is made from a piece of my soul. I'm scared that when my soul is gone so my stories will be.

It's an irrational fear, I know. But at least I can kill spiders. ^.^ ;)