A dear friend inspired me to write again. Because I have to know everything that everyone else knows. I’ve actually stared at those two sentences for six minutes. I don’t know what else to say. I have nothing else to say. I miss that depth of emotion that she has that I used to pretend to have. Depression has this interesting way of making me interesting to myself. Sometimes. I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I have to assume that some sort of ad infinitum theorem will eventually make me make sense. I don’t know enough words, maybe -- maybe that’s why I can’t get it out. Or sentence structures. Or maybe I’m not asking the right questions. What do I do?

I don’t like bringing my head down, but I don’t like being dry. How come the emptier I am inside, the more full each page becomes. I’m so intimidated by an empty page now -- but I’ve remembered how to care for people. Is simplicity preferable to complexity in this instance? Is it worth being less introspective; to be open?

I’m out of answers for questions that don’t necessarily need them. Why does her poetry make me feel like that’s not the right thing?