Today, my mind is a white canvas, but not the inviting kind that begs for colour or play.
The words aren’t hiding beneath rubble as they usually are-they simply aren’t there at all.
I sit with this emptiness, feeling the anxiety of needing to create something meaningful while everything I attempt feels fabricated and forced.
There’s a strange guilt in admitting this.
As if I’m letting myself down by not having profound thoughts today. As if authenticity means always having something valuable to say.
But maybe the most authentic thing I can offer right now is this confession: I don’t have words today. And forcing them would be the real dishonesty.
Perhaps there’s courage in acknowledging the blank spaces—in letting them exist without rushing to fill them.
Maybe this emptiness is gathering something I can’t yet see…
For today, I’m giving myself permission to be wordless. To be a blank page. To breathe.
