the problem with words

I am a bundle of words. They’re everywhere around me. Half finished sentences are scribbled on sticky notes around my computer at work, hours doing paper work blur into immensely detailed writings on life, the universe, and everything, and I have over one hundred pages of notes on life on my person at all times. Despite this ever-growing mass of writing I’m struggling to create anything finished. I can’t think why, because it’s not like I don’t have anything to say. I just cannot make words stick together. 
Sticky notes and broken sentences. 
If I was to actually sort through all the tiny pieces of paper from the last few weeks alone I’d have half a novels worth of unfinished thoughts. The starting of a sentence is easy. A thought is thought, scribbled down, shoved into a note book, and forgotten about. Even if I do manage to find it again at an appropriate time it will never be finished. 
(I assume in some parallel universe there is a version of myself with the other half of these pieces, probably equally as annoyed.) 
Blurry life writings
The problem of being an office peasant is that I have a job to do, and it has to be done within a set time frame. Office peasants cannot pull out a macbook and write an essay on what it all means, they must continue entering data and hope to heaven this answer to everything will stay in their heads until lunch break. It tends to fall apart by then. I know for a fact I had a brilliant idea today, but I cannot think what it was. I need a job that lets me do whatever I want is essentially what I’m saying. 
One hundred plus pages 
I refer to this as my letter. It doesn’t serve a particular purpose, currently, but it’s there. Thoughts on whatever. It’s essentially a journal, but I like to think that I’m really sophisticated and deep, not an eighteen year old with a diary. Whatever. This book is potentially what I am most proud of in life (that and my drastic eyebrow improvement in the last six months), but it’s a mess. It’s whatever goes on in my mind, regardless of how profound or trivial that may be. There are sections that I’d like to publish, but it will take hours of editing and reformatting. It’s not time, yet. 
(Gosh, I’m making it sound really important. It’s not. I promise.)
I just want to write things. I need to. (ha!) It’s just far more complicated than you’d think. I don’t know. I don’t know. 

By Britts Amelia

24. Ex-dancer. Jesus Feminist. Very bad at autobiographies, apparently. Studies brains and science.

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