The title is really a mouthful, and quite frankly, sounds like one of those long and in-depth self-help books. Maybe, because it kind of is. I am just here, typing whatever comes to mind, hoping that this title makes up for the mental emptiness currently flowing through my head.

Think crickets. And dust balls. And empty Bikini Bottom streets.

In a time of grave literary crisis, experienced by all writers at one point (or two) in their lives, we enter our world uninspired, frustrated, and especially, inauthentic. When spontaneity stops, desperation kicks in--the unnatural urge to entail something groundbreaking, deep, humorous, or unforgettable, all in the hopes to never disappoint and degrade the never ending art of writing. For the sake of attaching sentences together in attempts of creating a promising bouquet of flowers, we neglect the natural and magical touch of creativity, as we mandate ourselves to write about the latest scientific breakthrough in the most educated and sophisticated manner.

In the great day and age of social media, platforms for self-expression are endless, constantly exposed to other genius minds, ideas, and content. Suddenly, writing becomes an obligatory masterpiece. Just another "A Star Wars Review", or "The Top 10 Most Hated Celebrities". We begin to write not for pure passion, but to conform to the status quo, constantly craving relevancy and relatability.

Or even worse, in the midst of forced ideas and nothingness, we stop writing, thinking and creating.

We stop listening to our voices.

Ironically enough, option two is currently my middle name. While it took two hefty paragraphs to talk about unnatural effort (total time: 10 minutes every other day), explaining the process of giving up took choppiness and abruptness to a whole new level (total time: a minute in a day). And from my past experiences, I've come to realize the sudden flow of thought, or even in the absence of it, should be cherished.

Be excited for the nothingness, the crossroads, and the mental block. They scream upcoming progress.

And so, here I am, sitting on the couch, hundreds of miles away from home, admiring the beauty of absolutely nothing--enough to write about it. Waiting for a revolutionary topic to ignite, but enjoying the silent gap in the process. In the multiple times my mind has went blank and saw the world as uninspiring, I've grown to love such uncertainty. Writing has long been forgotten as a means of escape, an entrance to our mysterious thoughts, not an impersonal piece for a magazine or even a school essay.

Although I do not suggest writing about not being able to write for an English paper on Jane Eyre, ideas are the ones that drive the paper, not the fancy periods, commas, or hefty vocabulary. Inspiration shouldn't be sought after, but spontaneously felt. If nothingness is the current situation, let it manifest. Express your frustrations. Uncertainty, frustration, and the vast emptiness are the inspirations.

Find excitement in nothing at all. And suddenly, you will find yourself writing continuously and profusely with a heart.

Until my next mental block, let's write away.