Writer's block.

I can't write.

There is so much in my head right now. I have so many things I want to put on paper. Colours, smells, tastes, sounds, sights, distances, conversations. But I have no words.

I went to buy a new writing pen and paper – sometimes, the feel of a new pen between my fingers, a brand new texture under my fingers, and the scratch of the new pen tip on a fresh page help me find the words to describe what is in my mind. I found nothing inspiring, so I bought nothing.

I walked back and forth across the Missouri and watched the sun set behind the clouds. I watched the sky turn various shades of red behind streaks of grey and white. I watched a family of ducks bravely struggle against the tide.
As the street lamps lit, and their reflections grew brighter and more elongated, I watched a flooded, brick sidewalk fade into the darkening, rushing current, and it was soon overtaken by rippling streaks of yellow and white from the lanterns behind me.

I sit here now, recounting to you the beauty of what I viewed tonight, but I still can't describe any of the multitude of feelings, or thoughts of the past four days. I can't find any words to describe the small-time metropolis, the hundreds of miles of grain, the sunflowers further than the eye could see, the lonely tree on the distant hilltop, the billow of clouds, or the conversations, laughter, and even silence shared with the dearest of friends.

My mind is flooded with words images, but I cannot relate them to you. I cannot even relate them to myself.

Sometimes, the best dreams are the worst nightmares.

Dreams.

"I keep a little journal by my bed; dreams help me find the words I haven't said."

Dreams can reveal you to yourself.

I don't always like what I am shown.