Broken Wings

I watch hours slip by not knowing where they go. I don't write; I still can't. I have nothing to say these days. And even though ideas swirl around in my mind, I can't seem to capture them. I gasp for air because freedom is choking me. I escaped from all the noise and the dead routine but it turns out too much freedom is more constricting, worse than everything I've tried to run away from.

Does it have to be this way? Of course not. I know it need not be like this. I could fill my days with various responsibilities but that doesn't change the fact that I still can't write. Can't or won't? That's a whole other question I also need to face. Why can't I? Why won't I? I feel like everything has been sapped out of me. Too much TV? Too much internet? Maybe. My mind is getting lazy, I think.

Writing is painful. Not writing anything is more painful. I still have no idea, opinion, or image strong enough to turn into a story, an essay or a poem. I force myself to write anything. Anything at all like this random babbling. I didn't work on anything in Week 5 of Start Writing Fiction. I still haven't researched on anything that might lead into a story and my mind doesn't seem to run away with excitement at anything. Even the story ideas I jotted down when I felt really down -- I don't have the heart to work on them and turn them into stories. I long to write but I have nothing to write about. And the really bad thing is I find it hard to work on other  people's ideas. I'm not producing anything.

Maybe I'm just wasting my time postponing looking for a job just so I could use it to practice writing. I don't have anything to write about but I desperately want to write. So I'll keep babbling for now, hoping it might shake ideas loose from my mind and heart. I'll try to coax out secrets from my soul that's probably keeping my consciousness at bay to keep it from spilling them out on these pages.

What's inside me? Am I holding anything back so that everything else is held back with it?

Coffee-kissed lips as soft as petals

Deafening silence

Cutting yourself off from the world

Not knowing how to go back

What to do next?

Where to go to?

Is it still right to keep fighting on?

Should I go back to the city?

Am I going to miss this place?

How to recover from this slump?

How to bounce back?

How to feel anything at all? (How to not be afraid of what you're feeling?)

I cry. No tears fall this time.

Just silent screams inside my mind.

No rhyme, no rhythm.

Gone are the lines that haunt and repeat.

Do I really want to do this?

Can't I just be happy with another dream?

Grow up. Be responsible.

No money, no anything. Nothing.

I am a burden.

I still haven't written about my condition and the surgery more than three months ago now. Even that amazing trip last year, I wasn't gushing to write about it. Is it because I'm afraid I might not do it justice? What's stopping me from writing about them? Am I really that scared of facing unstable emotions that might resurface? Can't I let myself fail that I refuse to take tiny, wobbly attempts to write?

So then I stay awake at night like this. Restless. Desperate to try writing. Tired all day. Restless at night. I desperately want to talk with someone who might understand these things. I don't know how to share these things with people around me.

Slow down, thoughts.