Senseless.

The cursor blinks like seconds on a clock; the page is as blank as it was a tick before. My mind is in the same both consumed by thoughts, and emptied by them. Words flutter into my head like birds perched atop a tree, whom scatter at the slightest outreach of my hand. They are impossible to capture; impossible to hold. From afar I can see them disappearing into the sun, too far to grasp even if I ran. In the most, I can stand rapt in awe at their beauty, and for a moment watch their silhouettes fade into the distant stars. But there is not much more I can do than that.

For to catch the gallant bird that soars amongst the clouds, is to tear off it's wings and murder it's freedom. These thoughts are not meant to be captured, no--but instead remembered. How indeed do I wish to be able to steal one away and keep it in my pocket. But like a flower, it will surely wither away and crumble at my grasp.