Sometimes I just want to write. I just want to sit down and empty my head of all of its contents. Just lay it all out, filling the blank pages with the images and colours and sounds I have stored. I want to tell stories and laugh about all of the wonderfully hilarious things and tell the world of the beautiful people I know. I want to write about heartbreak and how it feels to have your heart ripped out. I want to write about fairytales, dragons and fairies. Write out the myths, legends, folklore, and magic, that’s in my head. All of it, the lot. I want to write about this really cool thing that happened this one time and what I had for tea and the places I want to travel, my favourite colours, the music I love. I want to write about dancing and singing and loving and living life. I want to write about the things that make me fall apart and the things that make me feel alive. Sometimes I just want to write.
So I grab what ever is nearest, my phone, a notebook, my laptop, a piece of paper, a napkin.
I stare at the page and nothing comes out. The thoughts that I had once been so excited about suddenly are weighed down with thoughts such as:
That’s not interesting. Nobody will want to read that.
And so I write nothing.
I don’t tell the stories of the princess saving herself or the dragon that just wanted to be understood. I don’t write about magic and fairies and fairy tales. I leave in my head the sounds of my life and the music that makes me feel. Tucked away are my memories that both build me into the character I am today and the ones that have the ability to break me down. I don’t write about hope and love and understanding. I don’t dream of travelling or talk of lessons life have taught me. Sometimes I want to write. But I don’t.
For too long I have kept inside of me all of the things I think of writing for the fear that someone won’t like it. But that’s not why we write.
Sometimes I’m scared of the blank page.
Sometimes I don’t know what to say.
Sometimes I want to write.
From now on, I will.