Nothing to say
A stream of consciousness
I want to write.
I just don’t know what to write about.
I’m like the addicted people who just need to smoke, drink — ________ (fill the blank) — for the sake of doing it. Because they need it.
I have words storming in my soul, words spinning in my mind. Words binding with feelings, creating stories.
I just want to juxtapose words, make up sentences, whether it makes sense or not. I want to tie words to feelings, conceive stories.
I’ve become addicted to being heard, to being read, appreciated, depreciated, sometimes ignored…
I’ve become addicted to existing.
Now that my truth is spoken through the lines I create, I just wander… was I alive ? How did I do it ? How did I manage to keep myself from breathing ? How did my friends and family love a dead soul ?
I have nothing to say. This is just me thinking. It’s me realizing.
It’s me resurrecting.
You know, when I read what I write sometimes I call myself sad. I want to be happy, I want joy to overflow, I want to inspire.
Allow me to apologize for not being that joyful butterfly — yet.
I guess I have to acknowledge every breach and wound in my heart before I can move on.
Once it’s done, no more drama.
It will only be the pure acknowledgment of beauty and love hidden in nature, people, and life. It will be humor and laughter simply relating the magnificence of shared moments between people who learned how to love one another, as much as they love themselves.
I just wanted to write.
I just didn’t know what to write about.