Reasons of a Mind

I stopped myself from writing, creating with paper, thousands of times. I felt foolish, an imposter wasting my words' time with useless outpouring of my interpretations.
Words, which I condemned with a million other words; words whose purpose, whose meaning I wanted to control; words that filled me, carried me so far along and brought me to these heights that words couldn't reach.

I follow, sometimes feeling blinded. I feel distracted from my intentions by the immediate, pressing ideas that collide, fighting to be heard in a word.