So many thoughts running through my head, but none making any sense. Not one of them clear enough for me to hear or to form a full sentence with. Nothing is more frustrating than opening a new document, staring at an empty page but no words will flow from your fingertips. If I could only get hold of one of these thoughts for long enough to wrap a story around it. But they all seem out of reach, too fragile to touch or keep. They will not come out of my head, through my heart and onto the page that screams for them. With every breath and heartbeat, I try to let one of them evolve in more than the silent sound it makes, but to no avail.

So I sit here at my desk, fingertips hovering over the keyboard eager to write. But nothing appears on the page how hard I seem to try. I keep staring in wonder as to why nothing is happening. As if some unknown force is stopping the soft click of each letter, erasing them before they even materialize. A blank page should be the dream of any writer, as a fresh canvas to an artist would be. But at the same time it scares me for it can hold the words I’m not ready to see. But when I’m about to give up, one word can change everything. I let my mind go blank and that’s when the magic begins.

A story starts to unfold from deep within, spreading its voice across the page like it wants to be seen. My heart pours itself onto the page, using my body to create. That what cannot be said but can hold so much pain. Reliving old memories or feeling emotions I thought I had forgotten. I suppress the tears that might want to flow or gasp when a single sentence makes the story grow. Deeper than first intended the words start to race out. And when I hold onto the momentum that is than found, I forget my surroundings and the story seemingly writes itself. All because of an empty page and nothing to write.