I could feel trouble vibrating through my body. Trouble always begins at the heart and it rushes through my veins. The syllables climb their way up my throat and pry my mouth open with freedom in mind. I vomit, "I want to run away."

Everybody dreams of going off somewhere but I wanted to pack my dream-filled bags to nowhere. Sleep under blank, empty sheets of the unwritten parts of the world. I could write my own stories there. I could say what goes. I'd haul each letter into place and the labor is worth it if I could say what I really wanted to. The way the sharp ends of a letter pierces my skin as I push it towards my goal is worth it. It leaves me with bloody hands and a sore smile. The psychological drama of finalizing desires and commands with a period is worth it. The period that always weighs a ton on your mind -- squashes your brain and excites your heart. It is the hardest part of constructing a sentence. 

I’ve been thinking to myself: Doesn't it seem like everybody else narrates my life? I sit back, unrelaxed, and I’m just completely surprised by what I read. The first thing people are willing to give away are their words and I’ve collected too many of theirs. I need to have some of my own. I need to define myself. This is how the trouble began.

I hate the empty space that sits next to the last letter of the last word. Something's supposed to be there. Something will be there. A story never ends. And I'm not going to wait for strangers with a disregard of words to write the next word for me. That's not me anymore. 

I let the trouble consume me. I let the trouble take me away to the noplace I call home. 

“Finally,” I sigh, “I can make the next words mine”.