Word Vomit

This blinking cursor has been haunting me, lately. Begging me as I try to sleep, to fill the white space with my souls brainstorm and its every fiber. I neglect these things, too often, I suppose. "Your words will be an instrument to many..." You've no idea how often I hear the old, aged voice repeat that in my head - again, begging my fingers to spill inner musings. I love it, but I feel like I'm too old for it. Doesn't there come an age where you're too mature? Too...'old' to spill in ways like this? ..I'm trying to conform, again, aren't I? Trying to please others instead of caring about what my heart thinks. Old me, old habits. But I'm writing. I'm conjuring up sentences in my mind to fill empty canvas with. I attempt to draw beautiful paintings in your skull, they just seldom make it past my whirlwind-mind. Come around if you care to check on my brooding. I'm sure I'll allow myself a dump of words from time to time.