Mental

 Currently 12:54am. I'll be honest I don't really have anything to say. I was told that just writing anything down makes you better at writing. So here I am, still with nothing on my mind, no hopes or dreams to write about, just babbling into the abyss. I think the scariest part of writing is looking at the blank screen or paper. The possibilities are endless, only brought down by our own imagination, our finesse in writing words. Words that can stick out like sore thumbs in people's brains, or they could be another written nothing sent to the garbage by a bored reader. Something that could be brought out, a singular moment of genius brought out by our words that we could fathom typing, or writing out in small letters. I hope to one day inspire, or make others dream with my writing, I want them to dream I want them to think, to hope. Yet as I sit here, my words speak to no one, to nobody, but myself. Not until I can do it proficiently, not until I grow nauseous with my words, not until I breathe a sigh of relief with my writing can I sleep. But for now I'm an insomniac.