There’s a pile of ideas in my head, and none of them know how to swim.
They’re just floating there—half-finished scripts, scribbled lyrics, scenes I can’t stop replaying.
Some loud, some quiet. All of them waiting.
I keep telling myself I’ll get to them.
When life slows down.
When I feel better.
When the timing feels right.
But the truth is—I’m drowning in them.
Not because I don’t care.
But because I care too much.
I want every line to hit. Every shot to mean something. Every word to be the one that unlocks it all.
But most days, they just sit there.
Stacked like unsent letters.
Fading like memories of people I swore I’d never forget.
Some feelings don’t leave.
They just learn to sit quietly in the background,
like a song you forgot you loved.
And maybe that’s where the art is.
Not in what gets finished.
But in what still haunts you.
uncommonsight 