(no subject)

[adrienmundi]

I miss the times when words flowed easily, when inspiration was as close as a stolen glance at my luminous other, when the world occasionally felt full of promise and joy. I want that again, and do not know how I've come to such a drab, flat, predictable place. I feel beaten down too often, slide into the familiarity of tired despair and preemptively foreshortened perspectives, as though sentence was passed down and joy was ripped from my chest, my tightly clenched hands. I have become docile in the service of something not myself. I would shine again, shine out heat and warmth and happiness. I would feel the bright green pulse of my heart, the heart that skips faster and higher at at even the thought of you. I ache to anticipate, stretching sore, unfamiliar limbs in remembered ways and make myself ready for the explosion of almost now. Soon, soon.

Comments

[fairyhead.livejournal.com]

1. You need to find a new job. This one is sucking the life out of you like Gateway did in the end.
2. Do you think that making yourself write more might help?
3. Is there anything I can do to help?