11:46
I write with a longing for meaning, a message much like a silver lining amongst the clouds. I search for sense, even at times to leave readers hanging - of course hoping to part with a curious question for you to think about. Most of the time, I try too hard that I end up with trite, beating around the bush type of rubbish. Well, I try.
Though sometimes, the urge to just write anything that ever pops into my head defeats all that I want writing to be. At these times, I hesitate, fumble with words, and try to move my fingers, but my mind fails to speak.
So here I am, with the strong imagination of inspiration to write. And once again, nothing seems to tell of anything with depth from the complexity of thoughts swimming beneath the countless folds of gray mater in our heads.
Still I persist to write; and how pointless, and lacking though it may be, I end with nothing.
…”come again”, my brain seems to speak. For it might have come up with an idea…”nothing is always something…to start with.”
Once again, trite.
Though sometimes, the urge to just write anything that ever pops into my head defeats all that I want writing to be. At these times, I hesitate, fumble with words, and try to move my fingers, but my mind fails to speak.
So here I am, with the strong imagination of inspiration to write. And once again, nothing seems to tell of anything with depth from the complexity of thoughts swimming beneath the countless folds of gray mater in our heads.
Still I persist to write; and how pointless, and lacking though it may be, I end with nothing.
…”come again”, my brain seems to speak. For it might have come up with an idea…”nothing is always something…to start with.”
Once again, trite.