The sign in the cross.

I think of what to do with it. I turn it over. I fold it. I make a cross on it. Finally, I crumple it and throw it in the bin. Another one wasted. Another one taken out. But ideas do not float freely today. I try. I cry. I demand. I juggle with the left half and the right half of the brain but nothing falls on the paper. The paper remains blank. Thoughts race with each other inside the brain but none reach the finish line. They either fall off, simple disappear or are still racing. Meanwhile, the paper remains blank. My fingers itch to write something on it but my brains forbids it. I write my name on it and the paper itches. I cross my t’s and make a cross over the ‘I’. A cross? Why did I make a cross and not a dot? The cross means this is not right. Is this a sign? A premonition? An omen that this is not the right time for the right idea? I stop to wonder about it. The ideas stop racing. The pencil stopped in mid air, I make up my mind. Now is not the time; maybe some other time. Crumpling the paper, I throw another one in the bin.