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I opened a page and decided to write. I didn’t know what about, why. Writing used to flow through my fingertips and onto the page, and now even that sounds too cliché. The rain patters at the window. Except, it has stopped raining. It has been raining all day except for the moment I want to use it. I want to use the rain to add to the scene, and so it leaves.

Nothing seems to work these days. I can’t work, I don’t work. I can’t do this, I can do that. Suddenly I’m good at lots of things but all of them useless. I only want to be good at what I want to be good at.

Writing. But the words don’t come. There’s no theme, there’s no goal, there’s nothing.

Reading. But the words don’t stay. I can’t keep them in my mind, they all float away.

I keep my page open, my pen hovers, and the imaginary rain falls. It is dark. That at least is true. I don’t know if stars twinkle above, but I’ll say so just to humour you.

My head is but a hollow space. The thoughts are like gas particles, never still, bouncing off the walls and into each other. 

Physics test. Tomorrow. 

You don’t need to be able to write to do physics. No one can do physics, physics just does it itself. While everyone struggles to understand it, it simply gets on with it.

I should just get on with it. Stop postponing the moment that I get my life together. It’s time to pick up all the pieces and try to fix the puzzle. It’s been time for a while now.

I’m tired. I’m tired in an ancient way. I feel as though I am weighed down by many others. Others that aren’t here anymore but still manage to influence my life. By making me more and more tired. 

It’s tiring being tired. 

I’ll stop now. Writing. Was I ever really writing? I can tell myself that nothing works, or I can tell myself that I’m making it up. I can tell myself anything really. There’s no guarantee I’ll believe it.

I’ll stop now. But I’ll start again.

Maybe tomorrow.