The little time I have to spend writing is eaten up by everyday stress. Every time I sit down to write I get stuck. I haven’t written anything in months.

I am staring at a bright screen and running my mind in circles, asking myself what I could possibly contribute that hasn’t already been said. Do I even have anything to say worth reading?

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,  and I am sitting on my bed procrastinating. I know that no matter how hard I work, I won’t be able to finish all  of my homework as well as I’d like to in the little time that I have. So instead, I am sitting on my bed and staring at my laptop screen, racking my brain for any sort of idea.

Nothing so far.


Beautiful Girls

They laid on the carpet of her bedroom floor, bundled in hand-made quilts. Their soft whispers turned to loud bursts of laughter every once in awhile, unsettling the calm of the house. They gazed up at the ceiling, their hands and hair intertwined. Time seemed to slow as they poured out all of their troubles and worries and their biggest secrets. Nothing else mattered. When one would talk the other would listen, softly stroking back the curls on her forehead. Their voices got quieter and quieter, till their worries were gone and sleep washed over them.

Rain in August

It was pouring all day. Everything was inky gray, as if water colors had spilled all across the clouds. Even though it was August there wasn’t a patch of sunlight peaking through the thick damp sky. Clear, cold water an inch deep ran down the sides of the road. My feet were soaked as well as my hair. Every inch of my skin was cold and wet. It was wonderful.




I find a comforting beauty in the bustle of a city. Immersing myself in the pulse of the streets, I become a brief portion of a stranger’s day. I like to gaze through the windows of coffee shops and watch the quiet movements of the people sitting behind them, inventing my own scheme of what their lives must be like. A small young woman, an aspiring artist, sits in the corner. Her gaze is lost somewhere only she can see.

My own thoughts trail. I imagine what these streets must have looked like fifty years ago – if they were as busy and filled with life. I wonder what must have occupied these old buildings before they were refilled with new people and new things and what they must have been like brand new. There was a time where people came here and saw their future.