I hate not knowing what to write.
There’s a million words filling my mind, building up the pressure. Any second the pipe will burst and thoughts will pour out, less like a faucet and more like an avalanche. Tiny individual inspirations gathered so tightly together to blanket the fragile landscape.
Life buried beneath nonsense, crippled by intense temperatures. We must wait out the season and wait for rebirth.
If only I can wait that long. Will my mind be ready then? Does the Muse reschedule her visits for a later time or does she laugh at my inexperience, my lack of skill?
Fuck. I’m over-thinking it. Time for bed.