I have been slipping. Where is my ability to write, to speak of things that I have known and hold dear to my heart? Where is the passion for the arts or the sciences that I am known to have? Where is the deconstruction of the beauty that I see every day that I try to comprehend or capture into a photograph?
I have been distracted. I try to think of words to write but they fall short of my expectations. So what do I do? I decide not to write at all. I long for the days that every word burst out of my brain, like it couldn't wait for me to spew it out. I long for the days when I couldn't just speak my mind, but that I could write it with the profoundness and intricacies it deserves. I long for the days that the pen felt like it was a permanent part of my hand, that when I used my hand there wasn't even a tiny bit of effort needed. Where are those days?
Please bring me back.
