There once was time in my life to just sit down and write. Write thoughts, write poetry, write stories, papers, even single lines that could develop into anything. And the words must not have stopped; it was most certainly me. The passion still lies there within, dormant, but there. It flares up every now and again when I write a letter or even in the occasional blog, but I feel like it is all shadows of those inner staircases that lead to libraries of things I should be writing.
Tonight I realized that much of that is because I have nothing to write for... no homework, no audience, no critique, no assignment. I'm too critical to be my own audience so I shut myself down before I can finish. I've deleted this entry three times already, exited the browser, and come back simply to have something to say.
And that something is this: I have nothing to say but wish I did.
Exeunt.
