More Nothing

This journal feels like one post after another of self-doubt. I guess that is what a journal is. Our inner dialogue written down. A mirror of what we say to ourselves. I won’t lie, I kind of hate it. It feels depressing. It feels hopeless. All I have are words, dreams, and plans. Nothing concrete. Nothing to have a firm grasp of. So perhaps I feel the very real possibility that [it] could escape my clinching hands and I’ll be left with what I currently have. More nothing. But then the dreamer in me pushes those thoughts away. Or really, writes them down so they can be out of my head and hopefully out of my heart.