I didn't know what to write. I haven't known what to write lately. I've known what to draw, what to play, what to read, but I haven't known what to write. The urges are there, but I ignore them because following them seems futile. They don't change anything. They never did really, but then it felt like I was doing something when I did decide to write. I was unleashing worries and uncovering the things I had buried. It was easy to manipulate words so that nothing was explicit, but it could still be understood. Now it's hard and since it never seemed like I was pushing myself before, I didn't start.
Maybe I should have. It feels eerily like I lost something because when it knocked on my door, I turned it away. Quite often, muffled whispers scratch and nibble at my brain and I want to feed their hunger, quiet their yearning. Yet when I try, I start without finishing. I don't allow myself to reach that state where I am swimming with my thoughts, picking them out as they hurl waves of emotions toward me. I don't want to think about the details of my life that are often written unintentionally, the ones that make me begin in the first place. If I did, I would have to concentrate on what is, the present. Life sticks me in the back while soothing my headaches and washing my feet. But I'm so used to the flavour that my tongue doesn't process the signals anymore. There's so much I could say, so much to contemplate, but how does it differ from how it will be.
Ah. Now I know what this is about. It's pretty amazing how our minds bring things up without having to flash neon lights every time you pass something important. I don't want to pass anything. I don't want anything to pass me. Time is so precious, so finite. I don't want to lose it. I don't.
I guess I was just trying to find a feeling.