I don’t know what to write. My journal is open, the lined pages blank; black pen twirling between my fingers. Re-printing what others have written…now that’s an easy feat and sadly, this is what I tend to do. It’s doesn’t require much; just rote re-writing, so why do I do this? To read is to learn, and to write is to know. I want to know things. I want the words to infiltrate my being and affect me; to cause me to think and ponder and write and grow. Right now I don’t know what to write, yet I will continue to scratch words onto blank pages.