I keep wanting to get up and write. I want to write badly and at the same time, interestingly enough, writing down a line seems like far too difficult, heart wrenching activity that I just can't seem to be wiling to put myself through it. Blogging is the only thing I can seem to manage through and that's just sad. There are so many writing exercises that awaiting to be done, books to be read and stories inspired by those stories waiting to be just written. The poetry journal is begging me, those egging feelings are just ripe for you to splash them against the white, ruled pages.
But, I just can't get myself to write. It's like I've thrown everything writing related in a black box and have put it away for now. Holding a pen feels so foreign. I think there is officially something wrong with me.
There are so many dangerous emotions and thoughts that I had to silence, I think I am afraid that once I start to pen them down, that will be the end of it and I just won't be able to function as the rest of society.
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