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haven't been writing much. or rather, haven't been writing at all.
even the rusty machine known as my brain had abandoned the production of ideas. where had all the sparks that used to fire up my creativity and made me dizzy with the sudden influx of plots gone to?
now, as i stared at the blinking cursor against the white background, a sinking feeling passed over my very being. am i cursed with this bout of mental block because i am actually growing up? the late nights that was spent on constructing a decent story was but a distant memory and i can finally see it now. as i step closer to entering the working society, a polite term for shameless adult whoring in the name of money, i have began losing a bit of my old self. and that bit happened to be the one bit that i did not wish i lose. not in a million years.
it's sad, really. watching pieces of you fly out the window while you stand behind the glass panels, unable to do a thing to salvage the situation. the innocence that once spun humor. the anger that once spun angst. the imagination that once spun fantasy. all of which spiralling out the other side.
i used to blame it on the lack of time but now i can finally see it's not. my only real release has deserted me because i am growing up.
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