I sit down to write, knowing there is something I need to say, but I am silenced by the notion that there is nothing I could say that hasn't been said one thousand times before. I plead with my mind to move just enough so that I could form words that would paint a clear picture of what is happening inside of me, but it only ignores me and sits there dead in my skull. I haven't loved my own mind for such a long time because some days it seems that it only spews for garbage, garbage that pollutes my body, my heart, my life. I want what I do to touch people in ways they never knew possible. Perhaps this is a lofty goal, but it is what I want, and I have grown very weary of giving up my desires because they seem so impossible. I have put aside many dreams that did nothing but break my heart, but I cannot let go of this. I suppose I shall just have to be 1001.