the answer is blowing in the wind

page 1. how many times have i stared it down, not knowing what will come forth, what will bring my fingers to the keys, and to push out letters which represent ideas that i didn't know i had. there is something more daunting than usual about it these days, a blank page. i am antsy before i even begin, anxious to be done, to get it over with. i have grown impatient with these thoughts, these times. the calendar is waiting to be turned, the leaves have fallen, and i am still where i began.
i wonder if my output could ever match my dreams. somewhere deep down i believe myself capable of great things-- the great american novel, or screenplay, or perhaps political theory. i have no evidence to suggest i am capable of these things. i wonder if anyone who produces these things first has evidence, or if they just decide to go for it.
it seems ridiculous to me that at some point we all have to choose who we are and what we want to be.
page 1 calls again.