I took a week off of writing. I told myself it was because I was pulling odd hours at work and only sleeping for three hours here and there whenever I was free to do so. I told myself this. All week long I told myself this, knowing that every time the thought crossed my mind that it was a lie. I repeated this lie over and over to the point that I almost was lucky enough to believe it.

But at the end, I couldn't maintain the lie. I was stuck. I did not run out of words and I did not run out of ideas. They were scrambled up in my head begging to be plucked and put in order. I ignored their pleas. I ignored everything. It's a special talent of mine.

The truth that I came to realize was that I had ran out of the ability to care. I didn't care to write. I didn't care about the swarm of nouns, verbs, adjectives, and other elementary school english crap buzzing about in my head; thru my veins. I didn't care if they ever came out or faded into some obscene death. I didn't care any longer if my words continued to be ignored. I didn't care if the couple of people that read them missed them. I didn't care if it showed five days, ten weeks, fifteen years between the last thing I wrote to the most recent.

I didn't care.

I still don't care.

But try to keep a writer from writing and his heart will no longer care to keep beating.

I'm not sure if I even care about that.

*But I'm writing.