Fingertips tap away on keys, pause, read over. Add some words, take out others. Delete.

I could’ve written a novel rivaling that of literary classics or an essay lasting for pages. Ticking and tacking on keys, ink dribbling, scribbling and scratching on paper; I could’ve avoided a lot of misfortune if I had used my voice at that given moment instead of my hand when the events become a part of the past. But I simply can’t convey myself well enough or thorough enough to make you understand me.

I never do enough. The energy exerted in my efforts to satisfy are pitiful and faint. I’m never enough. I have to try harder. I want to. I have to. Want. Have. I—

I rest my forehead into the curve that connects—yet separates—my thumb and index finger.

I appear to be at a loss for words, but that itself is nothing new.