I used to carry such an obsessive urge to write. My mind raced relentlessly. Sentences would course with ease from my conscious like paper though a printer. Hot and ready for the willing. There was such a natural rhythm that should not have come that easily. It’s never easy, is it? But the words aren’t coming as swiftly as they once were. My life is a mindfuck, I hardly have the patience to sleep. I’m sick and then not. Bored and then overwhelmed. I need life fast and changing rapidly so I don’t get disinterested. So I guess I stay up and do things like this at three in the morning. I can’t keep a normal schedule. Honestly, I don’t want to. Sometimes I just want to watch the sunrise or go for a walk because it is night. I want to know if this sounds crazy or cliché. Perhaps my writing is taking a sabbatical. Perhaps I just need to force myself back into it. I want to know if I’ve lost my head. I want to know but I won’t.
Tell me why, remind me when.