I wanted just a minor part

In the Italian restaurant I meditated on the thought that an overwhelming, all-consuming mass of writers have come before me. A feeling of being last in line to something arises in my mind. So many humans have articulated and sculpted their experience into coherent linguistics and stories. My own spirit has absorbed and adopted these poems. These convictions of writers before me. Paralyzing. In front of my pen, paper, and pasta, I asked myself if there is anything I have to say that would not be counted as a reiteration. 

Does an original thought exist anymore? Are we regurgitating each other's own, 

"I have loved you. I have had to deal with it"

?

My conclusions were just as misdrawn as the genesis of my thought. In this instance, I doubted myself as a writer. Assuming that a sentence must be birthed, fresh, and unheard of to be digested, validated, and loved. No. We are all feeling each other's suffering when we read. We remember humanity. It has been dead for so long. But when we read, it's real and enflamed with devotion. The thoughts of those before me only compel me to exile my own wonderings onto a page. Even if my own word is not new. It is my word.