Wasteful

See, here’s the rub.
There’s a lot to be said sometimes and not time enough to say it in, long stretches of time where I think that I’m too busy to put anything down on paper. Or on servers, in some cases. It’s not true, of course. There’s always time, but the problem comes when you stop thinking you have anything compelling to say.
I’m sure there’s something in my head that wants to come out, but I’m so scared of blank pages these days. Where, once upon a time, I could spill out words until I felt like I had managed to evoke what I wanted you to see, now I fear that everything I say will be trite or mismanaged, and when I write something out of form I fear that it will be misunderstood. I can’t experiment with things because there’s too much or too little truth in them, and I don’t want to deal with the fallout.
Which nothing can be done about.
I wish that I were not so sure that I’d lost the gift that I once thought I had.