Was reading old written works of mine and I can’t help feeling empty, drained and hollow. Where did my old fire go? What happened to that sass? I feel so pathetic right now compared to the writer that I was before. It would seem that it is not just my physical body that is deteriorating with time and age.
I don’t necessarily live a happy life now, though it has its sparkling moments. But the darkness that was my muse is now as elusive as the ‘normalcy’ I craved before. Instead of black, I now see in dull, boring gray. There’s nothing there to inspire or ire me enough to get the creative juices flowing.
I am not high, but not low either. How mediocre.
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