it has grown so overwhelmingly hard to write. i sit, i have a pen and a sheet of paper, and then...nothing.
used to be all i had to do was sit down in quiet serenity and let the pen scroll across the page freely. no thoughts. no backspace.
now i think to much, now i cant just write. In a little over two years I have only written one or two decent pieces. something that shames me. the one that her family said would make them proud with her words and all she can do is write child-like journal entries. what did i do today, who did i see. what did they say and why? nothing more, no art, no expression.
writer's block is a fear that bears down on all of us one time or another, but this has lasted so long. i fear that i have lost any talent that i may or may not have possessed at one time.
discouraged and beaten. i tried to write today, and this is what came from it. more whining, more apathy.
used to be my shame of this country's politics and quite a few of the huddled masses that would inspire powerful and angry writings.
used to be that love and loss of it would also inspire my thoughts, though my life with this love is hectic and leaves little time to sit and write.
used to be that simple human nature would spark some creativity, i fed on the brutality of the human race. now, i have become just as brutal.
the world is so cruel. my dreams are coming to an end. all the things i cried for, all the things i yearned for all my life have now been swept to the side for more important things. money, survival.
used to be that i didnt care if i lived in my car, i could do that and be fine with who i was. just enought money to survive and i could have been happy. but its not just me anymore. there is a family, and love. and i guess we all must grow up sometime. but why does that have to mean that all of the morals that i held all my life, all the values i believed in so much, all of these things have to be rewritten? why must i change the very core of who i am simply to survive in this harsh reality?
naive and childish i can no longer be. i can no longer dream of constant travel and living the life of a nomad.
to be the bearer of bad news i wish not to be, but this is how i have found the world to be. breaks are given to the undeserving, and money to the already rich. people dont help people and no one cares how talented you are.
writing is a talent of last century, and there is no place in this modern world for someone like me.
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