I am no longer the same.
I no longer write I don’t know why. I keep them in my head and afraid to share. When I put down some words they no longer seem connected. I remember how I could just pour out my feelings and thoughts onto a piece of paper and feel relieved. Is it some kind of brain muscle that I have deteriorated? It certainly makes me feel mentally constipated.
Or is it because I have become more heartless? I would read about some disaster here and there and wouldn’t think much. Maybe I have reached that age of desensitization: to know just enough to accept the unacceptable as norms. I try to write a poem: it sounds as interesting as some ear wax. Who in the world is going to read that?
Without anything more entertaining to offer, here I am bullpooping for no inherent purposes. Because I miss my readers, and I miss that one time when I could be so much more passionate and interesting.
“I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?” - E.D.
