Voices.

I'm scared that there are no more ideas to be dreamt of; that every combination of words has already been glued together into a montage of syntax and callused fingers. What if every sentence I painstakingly create has already been created? Are there any new ideas? Hasn't some Founding Father or Asian or starving writer already thought these same fabrications before? Sometimes my fingers are reaching and stretching as desperately as they can to grasp onto something original, only to find that there are already thousands of index fingers and pinkies taking claim on that same thought.

But maybe, then, it's the voice that is different. Maybe we're all scribbling the same words but the cadence in our writing makes the distinction. 

The trouble is, I'm still searching for my voice. None of my writing is consistent because I am surrounded by all of this noise. NOISE. And I can't concentrate. I can't hear myself over all of this yelling. I just want to be read and be critiqued and be hated and admired. But my hands covering my ears are not good enough to block out all of these other VOICES. One day I will write like that one girl with long hair. I like her diction and fresh ideas. And then I'll write like that beautiful boy down the street. He can turn a pile of dirt into something exquisite.

What if someday I develop a terminal case of laryngitis?