(found this languishing in my draft box for some reason)
i sat down to write some words, but nothing came to me. i hoped that wasn’t a sign, that nothing. it wasn’t that i didn’t have anything to say. it wasn’t that nothing was in there. it was all still there. every bit of it. it was more the fact that i had said it all so many times. it hit me that i was becoming a broken record. actually…not broken really. more like scratched. i was at that point where the needle would stick on the same phrase over and over again. and i just couldn’t write the same old bit anymore. i just couldn’t. i wanted it to be for a different reason. i wanted my fingers to hit the keys to say beautiful things because i had a beautiful reason to. i wanted the moment i was playing in my head to be the inspiration for what i wrote. the ecstasy, not the agony. i wanted to write things while my inspiration lay next to me pretending to wonder what i was writing, but secretly absolutely sure the entire time. secure and enjoying it the whole while. i just wanted things to change, but they were stuck in the ancient amber of sameness and there i was listening to forlorn music wondering what the fuck was going on within that space i wasn’t sure i would ever be able to reach. wondering why i could write so much better than i could speak. why every time i opened my mouth nothing much came out, as if my heart had a much better line of communication with my fingers as opposed to my mouth. i figured it was because my mouth was waiting. it knew exactly what it wanted to say but it wanted to say it at a particular moment so in the meantime it just bode its time. but that time turned out to be nonexistent.