sitting and thinking

sitting in my Holocaust class today, i had a thought.

i thought about why i hadn't written in a while, and why so. then, i thought that it was because there were very little things to write about, since not many things happen everyday that need to be written down of. then i thought, you know, Primo Levi was in a concentration camp. i thought, ripped from the World, stranded behind the electric fence, he can write pages and pages. what about me? shouldn't i write? i eat everyday, i sleep everyday under my warm covers, i learn, i speak, i laugh, i cry, i can even think whenver i want to. so why am i not writing? why do i have these needless thoughts about not being able to write? why do i pity my own self so much?

so i thought and thought and thought. and thought,
and thought,
and thought,
and thought,

until the word "thought" sounded strange in my head.
so i stopped thinking.