My mind is a blank canvas


My mind is a blank canvas, though no paints are to be found.

This doesn’t happen often; my mind is constantly filled with ideas, yet for some reason, it is empty. This is new territory for me. I don’t want my stay here to be too long.

I’ve tried writing many different things, but each attempt has been futile, leaving me enraged. I function much better when I have a plan. 

I don’t have a plan.

There is far too much on my mind for me to be able to conjure up an amazing idea. The inside of my head is filled with deafening screams.

You have a quiz tomorrow!

There’s a huge snowstorm on the horizon; be prepared!


Think of something to write about!

My mind is full yet empty—cacophonous yet silent.”

Don’t fall asleep!

I am laying on my bed, listening to Spotify on my Echo Dot, staring at my blank computer screen. Tears of frustration and vexation roll down my cheeks—I am exhausted. The inside of my covers is screaming my name, tempting me to drop everything and escape to my world of dreams. My eyelids are heavy; it is taking great effort to keep them open.

I have to keep going.

But everything around me is so distracting. My favorite song just came on, and I am trying my very hardest not to stop what I am doing and sing along. I just ran my fingers through my hair and a few strands came loose. The urge to play with it is intense, but I have to let it go. My pillow is so comfortable. I can’t go to bed yet. Not just yet… 

This week has lasted far too long, leaving me drained; much too drained to compose a piece of artwork that some people like to call writing. Too much stress, too little sleep. I must keep writing. First, the notorious question must be answered:

What to write?

That question has an infinite amount of answers, yet I cannot seem to find the correct one for me. Thoughts are surfacing, but all of them are incoherent. My mind is full yet empty—cacophonous yet silent. I continue to wait patiently for my “eureka” moment, for my amazing idea.

I am still waiting.

Nighttime creeps up to me like a predator scouting its prey. It continues to get closer and closer until it catches me—pulls me under. I am gone now, and there is no going back until my alarm goes off the following morning. But one question still remains:

What to write?