I was told to keep writing.  To never cease the movement of my hands and to let the words trickle where they may.

I was told that it's okay to write junk.

Because as long as I'm letting it out, I'm fulfilling my passion.

I was told to keep writing.  Even if I run out of things, I should just spill every thought from my mind:

This blanket is soft, and maybe a little too warm.  It belonged to my childhood bed which was bigger than the one I have now.

I've lived in every room of this house and it's strange to go back.

I am writing junk, but at least I'm saying things.

At least I'm not quiet like I used to be.

And maybe no one will read this, or somebody will and they will stay quiet.

Because this is literally junk.

But at least I'm writing.

At least this is real.

All of those beautiful things you read are revised.  They've been poked and prodded and they've been given thought.  They've been given a name.

But when you're writing from the vast space of your mind, you can't pin that down.

You can't call it beautiful or give it any title.

This is complete and utter junk.

But at least I'm writing.

And this is something I can't revise.

- S.H.