I feel as though I have lost things to say, though I know that isn't true.
Going through my old journals the other morning, I would write pages and pages about everybody's problems. Moira's dying mother, the way I loved walking by hospitals, how much I hated walking down certain avenues, avenues that reminded me of people I had big crushes on.
Now when I write in my journal, I haven't a clue what to write. I sit down and think maybe I will document what happened last night, or this morning. But there isn't anything I want to say. It bothers me and makes my skin crawl.
So then I try to read. I read a page and suddenly find a way to convince myself that there is no point in reading.
Then I go for a walk and think too hard about what I want to write about. Everything I want to say feels weightless and meaningless. The second my mind goes elsewhere I start talking to myself about all of the things I've been trying to say and so I go find a place to write it all down and it all disappears by the time I pull my pen out.
I am so bored of reading and writing but maybe it will come back.
