Emptying my mind

It has been long since I wrote,

Life has been a monotony with nothing eventful happening.

Or, yeah, it's just a reason I am telling myself for being the same.

I have the urge to write, the interest to write. Or sometimes I grow desperate to write.

Scrolling through feeds on Instagram, reading books and finding beautiful texts, it's hard to ignore the temptation. I look back and reread all that I have written for a million times and push myself to try.

I take a pen and my purple notebook, but the pages seem to be blank for so is my mind. I force myself to think.

And the anxiety kills the thoughts that struggle to reach the brim. I know I should let it flow, I know I shouldn't force it out.

And rarely, rarely, my life gives me something to think about, and even more rarely, something to feel about. When I finally feel human and feel emotions, I think it is the right moment to grab my pen and put it into words.

I write a sentence or two.

Mostly the titles fit in well, but no not the words for the emotions.

Doubts cloud the thoughts.

Would it be a piece worth writing? Is my emotion still strong enough to ponder about? Should I be letting it go its way or make it worthy for the reader? Should I add another sentence or stop it here?

I thought writing helped me escape emotions, but now that doesn't seem to help me. The happiness can't wait till I take my paper, the sorrow can't wait till I find the words. And then there is guilt or regret, which I am too afraid to face. I shake them away before I want to write about it.

Everything has shrunk in time. Sorrow, excitement, guilt, happiness, regret. None of them can hold me long.

Emotions don't seem to last, or I chase them away too soon.

What am I to write about then?

As I stand here like a helpless warrior with my pen, unable to make the war at the arena, I realise that when I look back at these moments of my life, they will be blank pages.

I am afraid;

What hasn't been worth writing about isn't worth living.