Well?

What am I supposed to write? I have many things to say. I have many ideas to envision. I have many symphonies of thought to play along the fine, sensitive keys of human communication. But what am I supposed to write? Maybe it would be easier if I were writing by hand; the whole mind to hand, hand to pen, pen to paper connection would invigorate my wheels of machinery that churn out language. Nah. Typing is much more leisurely- much more suited for the weary and tired ramblings of a technology-drunk adolescent. Sometimes I think it'd be nice to be able to make profound realizations and intelligent conclusions from my life- but then I remember the small things. Not everything needs to be looked into, generalized, defined, analyzed, or rummaged through. And in the midst of my current irony, I've come to a realization: What am I supposed to write? Nothing at all.