The Art of Letting Go.

I am tired. Most of the words I write end up in a trash can. My thoughts refuse to unravel. My ideas have all been used. I think I will create something today. I think that after so many days of tormented emptyness, my letters will form words that make sense. But the universe is known for having a sick sense of humor. Every time I try, I fail.

But it’s okay. It’s okay because as I sip my coffee at 2 AM, I am reminded of the countless writers before me who lived such nights. They tried and tried and tried and I don’t even know if I have the right to call myself a writer when I can’t even figure out my own words. 

I read flawed Literature and cry. I read Classics and cry. For the same reason that those who wrote those words cried. My words appear to be on an intergalactic highway that leads to a world far far away. But if they don’t make sense in my world, then there must be a world where they do. And with that in mind, I bid them farewell. For I have known the art of letting go.