Empty.

Pen to paper. Finger to key. It always happens, but only if I’m really in the zone. I sit down thinking I am going to write and it will never happen. I sit down with music from Grey’s playing in my ears and it always does. If I ever meet the people that pick music for that show I will be in awe, they find the best talent. Amazing lyrics that reach inside of my body and make my heart literally ache. You know that feeling, the feeling that there is an utterly empty space where you heart belongs because it hurts so badly. Yeah, that one. That’s what happens. It’s the only time I can truly write. When I’m hurting so badly from music or life that it feels like there is nothing left inside of me except words and they don’t belong there either. I have to get them down on paper before my mind explodes into a million pieces and I spontaneously combust on the couch in my living room. I imagine that if that did happen, they wouldn’t find anything expect my singed clothes and lovely jewelry. My rings, both the ones on my fingers and the ones in my face. My roommate would walk into the living room and realize I was empty inside, that I didn’t just make it up. Maybe my mind would be left, because although my body feels empty, my mind is almost too full to function.

The sound. The feel. There is literally nothing better than sitting here typing. Eyes closed. Listening to the rain hit the window just enough to relax me but not overpower my music. Maybe sitting here with a full mind and an empty body isn’t so bad after all.