I want to write. And yet here I am, deleting the same line over, and over, and over. It feels like sometimes, words simply... f l o w from us. And the other times, words come to a s t o p. We can't control it. Maybe others can. I can't. It's something so uncontrollable, and yet so unnoticeable. When the words flow, writing is so simple. I have a friend who says she can't write. I have multiple friends like that, who spend hours on a small haiku because they can't break that dam that stops the flow of thoughts and words and everything in between. The dam can be repaired, of course. But sometimes, once broken and rebuilt, it's easier to break again.
My brain finds every little fluff of cloud in the sky.
I think it's because part of me wants nothing to be forgotten. Not the little fluff of white, nor the large, flat cloud that's laid like a blanket across the sky. I enjoy searching for the small things, looking at the different shapes of the mulch, or counting the leaves on a flowery bush. Looking at the overlooked. It's satisfying, in a way. Looking at the things that aren't quite considered 'beautiful'.
Like the clouds that cover the bright stars. They just want a moment to shine, but instead they just annoy the watchers. Focusing how it's still something that is there, a part of this universe, and doing something. It's such an odd feeling. I enjoy it, though. Knowing I'm acknowledging the overlooked. Knowing that I can see that it is there, rather than just turning away from it because it disappoints me. Strange.