It’s like I’m constantly in a mood to write lately. My mind won’t stop working, moving, coming up with ideas. I sit in silences staring off into any sort of space searching for ideas that may never be displayed in front of me. Ideas that will constantly linger in the unseen depths of thoughts behind my eyes. And I can’t stop the working, the moving, and the ideas. So I’ll try to let them flow.

My ideas and inspirations appear so bland and mediocre in states of mind such as this. In contentness and peace I find thoughts and reflections that have already been so used. The words I write are so similar to others I’ve expressed when I feel like writing simply for the sake of writing. But I don’t feel like that’s a bad thing. Because I’m writing. And as long as I’m writing, things are okay. For at least that moment. In that moment. When no problems matter, distractions are insignificant, and worries fade. The more words I see written in front of me from this pen I hold, the more worth I feel. All that matters are the words. Whatever kind of jumbled, insignificant, mess of substance they turn out to be.

So in a way, I feel like all of the ideas I keep coming up with have already been expressed by me. There may come a downfall when the pen is constantly moving. There may come a disadvantage when all of your time is spent focusing on the words you’re writing, or at least coming up with those words first. Constantly thinking, creating, trying to inspire new ideas into my mind and I’m continuously shown the same thoughts that duplicate themselves in patterns my mind travels through. During my life, and as I grow, I’m faced with phases I subconsciously settle into for the time being. My mind adjusts, my thought processes change, my outlook on life develops into something new. And during these phases, I can’t help but think up the same ideas that I have already thought about during this phase and all others similar.

As of right now, I’m reflexive. Introverted, in a sense. I’m in that phase where I’m too sane to think up anything creative. I’m too happy to create words from destruction. And I can’t stop dwelling. Over-thinking, over-analyzing, over-daydreaming. About one specific thing, in this phase. And this thing inspires me to just keep moving the pen on the paper, but it also takes over all such varying thought processes. It’s horrible, but it’s beautiful. This thing is making it difficult to move into another phase.

But right now, I’m so tired. But not in the way of which it’s a problem. I feel like I can picture the pulse that my thoughts beat on. Times like these, the beat they flow on mirrors the steady silence I can feel in my heart. They flow lazily around my mind, lightly knocking to be let out. They plead lethargically to be released, to be written. To be visible. They are completely opposite from the thoughts that arise in times of mental chaos. The thoughts and troubles that yell and gnash and scratch to be released. When the pulse goes wild, displaying drastic peaks and valleys on the unseen monitor—when writing is the only thing that will silence the desperate pleads.

While I ache for the creativity the chaos brings me, I’ll embrace the silence and stillness now. I’ll hold onto the happiness and the idleness I have to envelop myself in at this moment. And I’ll dwell contently in this phase I’m in right now, all the while knowing it will end one day. But as of right now, it’s good. It’s right. It’s similar and horrible, but it’s beautiful. So I’ll hold onto it.