Just typing away, fearing that my nonsense isn't as well constructed as all the others and that it will fold like a house of cards. Is that the point of this nonsense, this utter nothingness? To rid our selves of these fears and write without doubt, whether that be self inflicted pain or nay, but to write learn and grow?
If that be so, then how can one grow from nothing? To spring into great existence from the black abyss of nothing-what-so-ever. Maybe that is the secret to truly great writing. From rags to riches is a common enough theme, so would it be that the great secret that we strive for has been in front of our very eyes this whole time, staring us in the face, screaming at us to listen. It falls on deaf ears and blind eyes.
Is it that we need to cut the rains and let our imaginations roam and eventually soar, weaving a great tapestry from nothing at all but one sole seed of an idea so vague and obscure that none think that it could possibly sprout?