A half-baked musing and questionaby-sane rambling from Reg

He seems to have stolen my ability to write.

I am not concerned by the loss of everything else he’s taken— my emotional range, my figurative innocence, my contentedness—but my ability to write is too much. Perhaps, to clarify, I should say not that he’s taken my ability but my gumption.

Nothing has moved me in a very long time.  This used to be so easy; everything had a story waiting to be told, and anything could be my muse. I still recognize the potential of the world as material for my half-baked musings and questionably-sane ramblings, but now I cannot be moved to write. I do not want to write.

Strange though, I would have assumed that now I would need to organize my thoughts on paper more than before. I used writing as a catharsis. If I didn’t write what I felt or thought, I would not know what I felt or thought. I could reach conclusions on paper that I wouldn’t dare to think about.

I do not have exceptional style, my spelling’s atrocious, my diction is adequate, and my syntax is unremarkable, but I am honest on paper. Only through the written word can I declare what I truly believe.

Thus, though I know it is futile, I beg for this piece of me back. I need to be able to trick myself into feeling every once in a while and I need to be able to express my thoughts to an apathetic world.

That is all.

Your butterfly,

Reg