My vocabulary dwindles,
intellectualism loses it's prime.
I can escape from that.
It becomes less and less of a priority to write.
This dissipating passion  is to be considered a blessing.
Why?
Writing is not a priority.
It is a need,
to keep a pen in your bag, and a journal accompanying it;
just in case you may remember your own silenced wisdom.
It is a lust,
to gain experience, to improve,
and to slowly cultivate your essence through the English language.
It is a skill,
that can either be possessed through pragmatism or vision,
through lack of reality or structure.
It is what gives you life,
it is what corrodes everything that you presently stand for.
Never though,
will writing be considered a priority.