I have no idea why, but whenever I open a blank space to write in and fill my thoughts with, everything goes out the window. For some reason I always seem to end up sitting here with a tongue filled with a thousand or so words, simply searching for the right ones to say when I already had them to begin with. It’s a little frustrating. There’s just so much I want to say or wish I could say, and to be honest I’m a little sick of this routine. Maybe it’s because there’s so much in my head. Too much. Or maybe in my heart? Possibly, probably. Maybe I’m afraid of who might read it, what I might say. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to say anything I’ll eventually feel horrible about. I don’t want to give away too much, but at the same time, I don’t want to be subtle. I want to pour every little thought out and feel liberated at the end of it. Writing is always therapeutic for me, but blank spaces are so intimidating. I always have this strong desire to fill everything up with words and words and more words. Or just art. Music. Color. Some form of life. Anything and everything, really. Occasionally I have a strong appreciation for silence, because it can be comforting and relaxing, but most of the time I’d always rather fill it up with music or conversation. I don’t know where this is going anymore, or if it even had direction to begin with. To be continued, perhaps? At least this formerly big white space isn’t so empty anymore. Words are always good company. Most of the time, anyway.