I want to write, but I don’t know what. I could easily pull out a flash drive and work on one of the dozen or so stories I was never able to finish, but that doesn’t appeal to me right now. I want something new, something fresh that fills me with that glorious excitement and passion for writing—well, until I give up on it for the same reason I started it. I’m pretty sure I have a writing version of A.D.D. Even my most brilliant ideas don’t hold my interest for long. I guess it’s because I’m a perfectionist. I want everything I do to be brilliant, and as soon as I spot a fallacy in my stories I give up on them and start something else that will be perfect, at least for a little while.

I suppose since I am writing now, I should be satisfied, but I’m not. As the words flow effortlessly and my fingers fly across the keyboard, all I’m thinking of is what should I write about? It’s playing like a song on loop in my brain. My ache to create is far too heavy to bear. I want so badly to give something to the world. I want everyone to read my words and ponder over why they were written and to feel the urgency with which I typed them. That is why I don’t understand my compulsion to continue this document when I could be writing something meaningful. My petty grievances will never be admired by scholars for their brilliant use of symbols and their considerable universal appeal.

You see, writing is all I’ve ever done. I play no instruments, but when I’m pouring my soul into a story and my fingers are furiously pounding against my worn square keys, it’s the most beautiful melody I’ve ever heard. I play no sports, and yet I feel as though the many facets of my personality are my trusted and dedicated teammates, and together we devise a way to get my characters from point A to point B. I cannot draw, but my words fill up a page with vibrant colors that happen to be seen differently by everyone that views them. My childhood can be summed up by a series of colorful spiral notebooks shoved into the back of my closet, and they capture my essence more clearly than the best of scrapbooks.

Writing is as basic to me as blinking. I can bend words to my will masterfully. I dominate over them, but they still love me in the end. They can take any amount of abuse I dish out and they never get angry. I can erase and delete and move them as many times as I see fit without any pressure or judgment and they are resilient and plentiful, unlike people. To me, there is no greater power than that of a well-phrased sentence. Words can start and end wars. They can fill your heart to the brim with any emotion imaginable. They can cripple or empower you, and yet, they are only as good as the person manipulating them. My words give me the power to be someone special and make the most out of my humble life. My usage of words makes me who I am. I wouldn’t be the same without my witty banter and random outbursts of trivia.

Now this has become a treatise on why I write as opposed to an innocuous attempt at acquiring a new subject matter. I never was good at sticking to my original ideas. Perhaps that is another reason as to why I can’t finish my stories. Anyways, I suppose I should finish this now that I’ve started on a tangent, but that would just contradict my previous statements. Let it suffice to say that writing is more than my creative outlet. Nothing has the capacity to make me more jubilant or more enraged, and no force known to man can ever make me stop doing it, even if I only have thousands of unfinished stories to my name.