Reading is the best thing ever. Well, one of the best things at least. Once you pick up a book and start reading, you enter this whole new realm; you forget where you are or who you’re with, and all you can focus on are the words on the pages in front of you.
Sometimes writing can be a struggle. At least that’s what I tell myself when I can’t think of anything, but that is completely false. I mean look at how easily I’m writing right now. It might seem to me like I’ve got nothing to write about, or that my mind is completely empty, but in reality, it’s all just psychological. Once I put my pen down on paper and just start writing, there’s no stopping me. It’s the best feeling honestly, just writing out my thoughts and the first things that come to mind, nonstop.
Sometimes you feel out of place, like you don’t belong. At home, at school, or wherever it may be. You’re surrounded by people who know you so well, yet they don’t know you at all. Sometimes you can even feel like a stranger in your own home. And even though you have so many friends, you’ll still feel like you have no one. You might feel very afraid, but you feel like you have no one to reach out to. Sometimes you feel like you’re all alone, sometimes you’ll feel sad. Sometimes you’ll feel like you’re never good enough, other times you’ll go mad. But all along you know that deep inside, you’re stronger than ever before. So once again you pick yourself up and put on a smile, telling yourself that nothing can bring you down.
Thankfully I have you.
Sometimes I just stare at a blank screen or sheet of paper, wanting nothing more than to write, but the words fail to find their way out of my head. They just linger there, unable to put themselves together to form even the simplest of sentences. Times like these are often very frustrating, and sometimes it gets me mad. My mind feels as blank as the paper I am looking at, yet in reality, it’s the exact opposite of that. There’s nothing I can do really, except to start writing something, anything, in hopes that I no longer have to stare at a sheet that’s so painfully empty. Part of what I write might not make sense, but I believe that the rest of it does. Sometimes I write poems, other times I write what I feel. Most times I just ramble, but what I write is real. I’ll go on and on about stuff that is pointless, things that no one even cares about, but I know that out of billions, there is at least one other person who knows this feeling all too well. I write my last sentence and look once again, this time satisfied as I see the sheet that was once so irritatingly clean, now covered in words.
Just a little something to clear my head.
After ages of thinking about words I could use to describe you, I’ve come to think of you as indescribable.
And to say you’ve crossed my mind would be impossible, because let’s just say you never left.
It’s like everything that I’ll ever need, all in one person.