Not finished yet

Sometimes, there is nothing to write. The brain goes blank and the fingers pause and the pen starts to doodle. The deep and thoughtful have become the shallow and superficial and then evaporate until there is nothing left. The page stares back at you and its emptiness becomes intimidating; the idle thoughts scurry to hide behind each other and jostle to stay in the brain and not be exposed to the wandering eye of some passer-by. Sometimes little things can be written in such a way that they have a small purpose in being set down for future readings, or they act as a safety valve for the author. Therein, lies the best description of short thoughts: a safety valve. If there is a of steam then the whistle is clear and strong, if there is hardly any steam, then the whistle is weak and feeble. When there is nothing that grabs the imagination and tickles the fancy then writing becomes a chore.

It's like when you wish to design or draw and you have the maddest desire to design and create and nothing presents itself as the project. So you start sketching nothing and sometimes, something comes and with a little molding and prodding becomes something. And sometimes it falls flat, and should not be continued. Or gets put in the book for further work as the idea is right, but the execution needs some work.