I wish the caves of my mind were more complex and not filled with so many obstructions. If I could explore those caverns on the page, I would have more to write about and would stare less into the abyss of nothingness. But it’s not just about writing, it's more about living. How can one live such an empty life?

Wasn’t it said that the unexplored life is not worth living? What happens if my life is explored, but my discoveries just show how small my world really is? I circumnavigate my world in mere hours, realizing that what looked complex from the outset was really as simple as a child’s maze. That is my real concern in exploring my inner feelings.