For months I’ve looked at blank paper, at a blank page on a computer screne and waited. The flashing cursor or the blending lines grabbing my attention and sharpening it. Was what I had to say good enough to mar the un-touched surface of something I’d touched a thousand times? I couldn’t avoid it, but when at long last I’d put my pen to paper or my fingers to the keys there was nothing but the blankness that I saw in front of me. There were no words to express what I was feeling, and there were no major epiphanies to write about. The lines wavered and the cursor blinked, as though demanding something of me I wasn’t sure I could give right then. I’d look away, and look back only to be faced with the same dilema. I waited, and yearned for the words to write but they were un-interested in coming to me at that point. So I waited. 
I waited until I could find myself -- find what I wanted to say, and what I wanted to know about. I think a lot. I'm inside my own head A LOT. It can hinder me and it can make me hate my hesitations. 
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