But I don't move to put my stuff back. I sit so still, debating with my own self. Allowing my thoughts to eat me up whole. I have so many personal experiences I can get out, that I can describe in vivid, beautiful details.
I can write about what has broken me this past year, with the layoffs, lack of theater, and failing of classes.
I can write about my travels, out to CA and back, my cancellation in Chicago, my trip to MN, my road trips.
I can write about my future, about St. Kate's and the physical therapy program, minoring in Theology and so forth.
As I spiral in a whirlwind of my past, present, and future of my life, I come to a simple conclusion. What do people want to hear? Who will even read it to begin with? Should I give what I want, or what they want? Do my experiences get the credit they deserve being voiced by myself, using everyones' eyes' and ears' as a writing tool?
Probably not. Maybe I won't do them justice. Maybe I have never done justice by writing them to begin with. So lets back track to square one.
I love writing. Let's hope I can do that justice.
I must retract myself from my mind eventually, its only so long until someone worries. I come back to my pen and blank sheet. Smiling, I gently pack up my materials.