Dead pen

I haven’t been thinking a lot lately of things that hover most closely above the heart. In fact, I haven’t been reading much either; haven’t felt the pull I used to feel, of wisdom, of melancholic philosophy, or of those simple reminisces by Kathy and Ono. And because I haven’t been thinking much or reading much, I don’t write much. I have nothing to write about, and even when I do have something in mind, I no longer know how to write it. The first sentence goes well, but then it stops. Everything stops. I try again and again, but nothing looks right, and eventually, I give up. A friend, maybe two friends, told me recently how they suffer from periods where they can’t write properly and efficiently. I think that’s happening to me now. These words, the don’t feel right. And I’m probably not communicating the right messages. You might never understand what is going on in my mind right now.

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