Empty pages

I stare at the pages of my journal. I don't know what to write about anymore. Half of the pages are blank. The other half are full of scribbles and scratches, words that don't seem to work together anymore. I used to write about sadness, about being in the in-between. I used to write about being suspended midair, not knowing whether anyone will dare to catch me. I used to write about being left behind and being lonely and alone.

Oh but I do know what I want to write about. I want to write about the uncertainties in my life. I want to write about the things that scare me. I want to write about the things I want. I want to write about  what makes me happy. I want to write about people. I want to write stories. Those scratches and scribbles are my feeble attempts at writing. I try to write about my current state of mind. But I tend to give it up after a sentence or two. I hope I get to pick up a pen soon and go crazy on a page or two.