I want to write about something but I don’t have anything to say.

I want to write about something but I don’t have anything to say.

I want to tell you a story but there are so many I don’t know which one to choose. 

This must be what it feels like to try too hard. 

Except I’m not really doing anything at all. 

Just sitting here in this cafe drinking an overpriced coffee thinking that being in this ‘space’ is going to somehow inspire me, or provoke me to have beautiful thoughts that will translate into well crafted sentences that don’t ramble too much, and all come together in a slightly or highly  enlightened message or at least a passage worth reading, and if I’m lucky, one that resonates with someone….anyone?

Instead, I just spent the last thirty minutes drinking my four dollar coffee and staring out the window at passers by. Now my fingertips are tingling and not due to frantic typing as they should... No, my fingertips are alight because when the barista asked me ‘what size’ I said ‘regular’ not knowing this meant supersized and I should have specified ‘Small’. What was it, a fifty cents difference? Negligible for the wallet but drastic for my nerves apparently.

What did I do that one time, when for weeks on end I wrote up a storm? Or those nights when I lay propped up on my pillow and wrote until my #2 pencil was so worn down that I had to use my fingernail to peel away some of the wood because I couldn’t stop for a minute to search for a sharpener. I was on fire then. What was it that doused the flame?

I want it back. I need to get it back. But how?

They say leap and the net will appear. Maybe I need to start typing and the words will come, the story will tell itself?

And since I’m apparently asking 21 questions, why is it that it is only when in the shower and the water is on the verge of scorching the skin off my back clean away, why is it only then that my mind is as clear as it will ever be and my emotions are so strong but not wild, so that all of my ideas, my good good ideas come to me and I think, yes, I knew you were in there, just as soon as I dry off I will write this down, I will tell this one particular story. 

And then the second I step foot on my bathmat - gone. Just like that.

I need something to blame this on. But what?

Maybe the fact that I’m about to pick up my life and move across the ocean, to a foreign place, and live in a different language and start over from the very beginning and I’m not sure how it will all play out. Maybe this is what has me frazzled? Maybe I should tell you the story of how I came to be right here, right now?