I'm sorry, but I looked at the inspirational poem and stared at my blank notebook and fidgeted with my pencil and realized that
I have nothing to say.
And because I have nothing to say, I do not exist.
So I start babbling to myself in the abyss, telling myself of my nonexistential woes, and a weak kind of godless existence forms around the creature that is me. The only thing keeping me alive is the path I run, a one-dimensional loop through a vacuum.
This summer, I learned how to sit and not talk, to not feel the need to say anything. How to lie in the dappled treeshade on a bench made by someone I was not thinking of and simply put myself above the earth, ar least among the shiny green leaves that brushed the bright blue. I let myself drift away, on a holiday from the intensity that is me. I let myself fill with the day, the night, the near-silence, fill with the chords of one soul's guitar. My first time experiencing the pleasure of escape.
Pleasure of escape... I'm not here right now. Please leave a message. I'll get back to you, eventually. For now I'll turn up the music in my head and just listen, just fill. I'm not here anyway. I hate a vacuum, I'll be back after I've filled mine. Running up and down hte chords of the vacuum-filling music in my head...