No matter how hard or how long you stare at the piece of paper or how many deep a breath you let go of, not a thought seemed worthy of being written. An idea comes into mind. Naaah, too mushy, too personal, too raw, it makes no sense, and the list goes on. Now that’s where your thoughts drift off.
I flip back the pages and all I’ve written are dates. There should be some entries after the date, time, and location in these pages. So far, there are lines. Lots of them. And spaces between them. No words though. Whoever said the entries had to make sense. Anything would be better than an empty page. I have no way of remembering the next weeks if I fail to get something (anything!) in these pages.