I cannot write anymore. Something has changed. It's as if the cold of winter snuck into my bones and stayed there. There's a heaviness that wasn't there before. Something it would be too easy to call sadness. An ache that comes back and back and back until I can't pick up a pen, let alone open a laptop. Imagination is dead. So is hope. So many things are missing.
And sometimes I' scared that the big black hole of loneliness and beige in my heart will swallow me whole and i won't be able to fight my way out this time and my life will just go on being nothing and grey and unextraordinary and then I'll die, one day, and nothing will change and eventually no one will remember. And then I realise that that's the nature of our human lives and hundreds of thousands of people live and die like that and that's just how it goes. And I don't see why anything matters anymore.
There are no new words. And the old words have been arranged so many times that there is nothing new to say. I have no ideas. No motivation. No interest, even.
So you hold on. You tell yourself it's a phase. Just make it to the end of the week and it'll be different. Once the sun comes out. Once the trees bloom. When spring arrives. And those things happen and the apathy stays and you drift further and further from remembering why you did this at all. I don't remember how I used to write. Or why.
And I've ceased to care.
There are no new words. I have no new words.
The end.