I don’t know if it’s my lack of skill or whatever but I just can’t seem to write anything.
I am quite aware that I have a knack for recycling old baggages from my past and making these emotional turmoils in to something poetic and current.
However, these past few days, the whole process of it tires me.
I just can’t seem to bring any of my demons out (and this is very bad because I am writer) and I feel utterly contented savouring the nothingness that’s permeating my present life.
I don’t know if my heart is just glad that it cannot speak the language that I want it to speak.
I just don’t know what else to write about anymore.
Back then, I could write a gazillion prose and poems about how my heart ached– about how it begged me to stop punishing myself from loving too much. I could write about the metaphors I would use to capture the colours of your eyes. I could write about how it felt so natural for you and for me to just sit there inside that coffee shop, laughing about everything. I could write about what abandonment feels like– about how it breaks every bone inside your body and you can’t even feel anything anymore because you know that he has done this a couple times ago and this won’t be the first time you waited for him and he never came back (and he never would). I could write about how angry I was when you decided to break up with me through text whilst patronising me for being “too good for you”. (That’s bullshit by the way). I can write about that time when you told me you’re scared of falling in love with me and how foolish I felt for crying because I wanted you to do exactly what you feared the most: to fall– freely, wholeheartedly, irrevocably in love with someone like me.
I can write about the universe of emotions that I have explored and the ones that I have yet to land my rocket on.
I just don’t know how.
I just don’t know if this is what it feels like to be joyful– to be content.
To want nothing released for I’d rather keep all the joy in– I don’t know what this feeling is.
I am glad but there’s a void inside of me and I can’t understand as to why it’s there. I just know that it is there and that it doesn’t want me to write.
Maybe it’s apathy or maybe it’s content but whatever it is, it feels horrible.
The lack of drive and the persistent hauntings of apathy combined makes me feel horrible now that I have defied a little bit of it.
I have written a piece about how I can’t write.
Maybe I need a little bit more of irony.