I’ve been fighting to find something to say. I open my mouth and the words can’t even squeak out. I feel robbed. Robbed of something to say. Even in my writing there is nothing to offer you. I’ve been drawing a blank, tapping my pencil on the blank page. It’s been months now. Nothing can describe in the way I want it to. Whatever I write, it’s not right. Nothing is good enough for it; if I can ever figure out what it is.
And believe me; I have much to say.
And I can’t even focus on anything beautiful now. I spend more time in thought than I do anything. Have you seen the list of things I need to read? It goes on for centuries. There’s no end in sight. And I am the only one to blame.
I went away from you in hopes that I would find something beautiful within myself to thrive. But now I am even running away from that because you followed me there. I cannot get away from you. I want to, I’m desperate to, but I cannot right now.
So now I’ll just sip my tea; slightly cold and sweetened way too much. I’ll just stare at the screen before me with a smug sense of self importance. I’ll let the music drift softly onto deaf ears. And I’ll leave the pages blank.
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