I haven’t been able to write for a while and I find myself knocking on the door of my mind wondering when something will come out next
I’m waiting for a surge of inspiration or a burst of creativity
But I keep finding myself to be entirely hollow
Writing has always been bittersweet for me;
I think it’s because the pen in my hand will only work if there’s pain behind the ink
I guess you could say that I’ve been scared to write anything new because I’m tired of reliving those memories with every broken sentence I write.
You see, if I heal the pain, my pen runs out of ink and I lose the passion
But if I keep feeding the pen in order to keep writing, I lose my happiness.
My life has always felt that way though.
I’ve always been in a dark room unable to see.
And maybe I’ve always had the tools in my hand to fix the light
But how am I supposed to fix something if I don’t know where it is?