I can’t write. I try too hard. I try to make my words too pretty and my sentences too long, when all I am trying to do is make sense. I try to imitate the authors I love and I butcher it. Because it’s not what I mean. It’s not from me. 

I try to inject metaphors into my words. I try to watch the sky for inspiration. I try too hard. 

When I was little, the words came to me. They weren't great, but at least they were mine. I didn't try to say things through words, like I do now. The words, they said things through me.

But then I grew up. And I read too many books. And I loved words with a fever that impaired me. And my thoughts grew scattered. And I stretched my words too thin, beyond their actual meanings. And sense blew away with the wind. And I’m just trying to hold on to the magic.