Brains are like paper thoughts. You can't wash them.

Another white paper, another story or poem. It has to be somewhere, and some day it will come out. But at the moment, I’m only filling this paper with words to find my story. I just keep on typing, in the hope my words will come in my mind, so that this story can really be written. Don’t stop, it will come. You only have to think about a emotion you want to share, and than it will turn out to be good. But my emotion on the late hour of the day is not so easy to find. I rather take a bath, of lay in my bed and listen to stupid songs in the darkness of the night. But now this paper is laying in front of me, all those things doesn’t really matter to me anymore. The longing to write a good story makes me better sleep than a silly song. The dream of being a writer some day is filled with the sweetness of sugar, and with the freshness of rain. It makes my heart goes faster. My eyes look for every little thing to write something about. Remembering stories, watching people, in the hope that I might find something interesting to write about.
I realize that this longing can mean that I’m too focused on writing good stories. It might take me down, it might never come than.
I don’t know. I want to write a story about a hero, and I already found some good words, but I am just scared to start. It has to be perfect, it has to be good at least. I have to make sure I’m ready for it. When I start, it’s a pity if I don’t finish it.

Just a paper. Didn’t found the words. Did find my dream, Did find something to think about.