It’s been two years since I could write. I still don’t know what’s wrong. I still don’t know where my words went. Did I kill them? Did I write too damn many tech books? I can’t hear anything anymore, and when I pretend it doesn’t fscking sound right.
I know it’s all still there somewhere, and I can feel it slowly devouring me, but I can’t seem to reach it. I’m well defended against myself anymore, I don’t trust myself as far as I can throw me so I can’t tell myself what I’m thinking or what I’m feeling.
It’s been two damn years since I could write and I’m needing, I’m fscking needy. I read what I did before and everything resonates. I want to know what’s under my shadow again but whichever way I turn, I can’t catch it any longer, I can’t make it stop for me.
I try to analyze exactly what it is that’s changed, but the only answer that I find is everything — everything has changed. Unfortunately, beyond my own event horizon, nothing has changed, the flavor is the same and the same nonsense touches my skin when I walk, when I sleep, when I think.
Bah! There is no answer. I’m reaching for something that never was.