If I had something to write about I would have something to write about and I would write about that something until I had nothing more to write about it. Unfortunately, I have nothing to write about so instead I have to write about the unfortunate situation of not having anything to write about. It is really rather unfortunate.
If I had something to write about I would write about how it looked and how it smelled and how it felt. I would write about how it looked like it might smell, how it smelled like it might feel, how it felt like how it looked. Or perhaps how it didn’t.
If I had something to write about I would write about where it came from and where it was going. I would write about where it wanted to go and where it wished it had never gone. Where it wants to stay. Where it calls home. Where it misses.
If I had something to write about I would write about its nicknames, surnames and first names. Middles names, confirmation names and fake names. Pet names, maiden names and pen names. The names it used to be called in school. The name it always gets called accidentally, and how it hates being called that.
If I had something to write about I would write about its struggles. I would guide it through the struggles it has not yet been faced with. I would let it know it’s not alone, even when it is. Especially when it is. I would let it soliloquise its most secret secrets, pretending not to listen so it would be as honest as it could be.
If I had something to write about I would write about who it was avoiding. I would write about who it wanted to see. I would write about its adolescence and all the awkward encounters that came with it. I would write about its first love and its last love, but I would leave out the loves in between. (All love stories are the same when they’re not your own.)
If I had something to write about I would probably not write any of this. Maybe I would just write the important parts. It would all be important, but I would keep some of it just for me.
But I have nothing to write about.