It’s not that I don’t enjoy writing anymore. It’s not that I particularly dislike reading anymore, except that maybe because I no longer can find the time to lie on my bed like a sloth with a good book. Gone are the days where I would finish books like a girl on PMS devours chocolates.

What a horrible analogy.

It feels like as the days pass I forget how to articulate myself. Words, phrases and sentences all sound better in my head. And when translated into text, nothing seems to make anymore sense.

Why does it sound so whiny, so incoherent. This is but a shadow of your writing. You don’t even enjoy it anymore, they say in my head. The lilt and pride you once took in your work is nothing but a fragment of what was your but gone.

Even the more I type, the more this begins to sound ridiculous.

I could drown in the unsaid words I have, the feelings I long to articulate, the passion I long to share with you. The words die on my tongue, these feelings I shove into a distant corner of my mind. I can’t tell you when you might just discover all these hidden thoughts and emotions.

But you’re easy to read they say.

I’m going back to basics. I mean, I’ve already stripped my Mac to the way it came to me in the box.