Nothing should ever have to feel this rough. It's just a blank piece of paper yet I keep finding myself more intimidated by it than anything else I've ever encountered. All I keep thinking about (and I know that it shouldn't feel like something worth contemplating for so long) is the absolute vacancy of it; there is nothing there. Nothing at all. It sits, aimlessly, poignantly, ready to graciously douse me in the warmest frustration– only a blank canvas is so harrowing— known to man. The prospect of being met with true autonomy; a free will like nothing I've ever even had the chance to truly comprehend. It rattles my mind and plagues my hands. I just want to say something that I think makes sense. Sense not to anyone else but to myself, the maker of a damned desire, enough for me to feel like my brain isn't something that I've conjured up. Are my thoughts really mine? Is there anything between thought and blood? The only thing that seems to make sense anymore is the certainty of my evacuation. And all because of a blank piece of paper.
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The Ditch
Short StoryThere's a place-- something sort of serene-- that I fall into when I walk too fast. Sometimes, once or twice, it's been because I walked too slow. It's kind of dark and I can feel the ants and beetles and worms and things waiting for me to call it i...
