I am writing you this letter to....ummm to
Hey how are ya? How is life? Way the hell over there? I am writing you this little -
Greetings from my brain. I just wanted to jot down this note to inform you of my
I dont let you be you.
I get that.
I sat outside today, during my lunch. I miss you more than ever. My heart feels empty without you.
And all i have ever asked was why?
The thoughts have passed and all the reasonings followed.(Read that excuses). I own it.
For the first time in, oh say 38 years, I have no real desire to write. In any fashion. Sounds so simple. So easily remedied, doesnt it?
Alas it is not. There is so much attached to that thought.
I have always written. Always. In some fashion. Free and paid. For desire, for want, for need, for it was me and I was it.
Now, I feel like a lost child.
It is not just writer's block. It is not burn out.
A wee little girl writing, more like scribbling, fulfilling her every whim on paper with ink.
A grown little girl who had a passion for words, for the story, for it all.
Usually when you lose something, its in the last place you look. I feel so empty and yet my life is just so full.
THat space and that time, the zone? Has moved on. Is that it? You have found another to fulfill your needs?
Inspiration is...lax. None. I feel very uninspired. Can this be so true? That the words would finally leave me? That I would have nothing left to offer?
That sitting here is punishment and the affair is over?
I dont know quite where to go with this emotion. For it is new. I have never felt so alone and abandoned.
I even turned down an opportunity to read and edit for a script.
This is not all you, my dear wonderful muse. I would suppose it has been very demanding. Truly your time away in all these years has been few, and your stays away short.
I have also put constraints on you. I realize this.
The carefree, freaky- free spirited child, told to mind her p's&q's.
Letting others dictate what I(you) write or how I(you) write. Letting the statistics hinder any progress. To deluge the mind with worries, where you never had one.
Your freedom, stinted.
That double edged sword. Writing to write, for oneself. And yet wanting to share. TO more than just a few.
We did that.
We did it well for a bit.
Then we ventured out, added a few new topics to the curriculum, as we are made up of more than just benign soft and sweet thought provoking words.
We are full of substance, yes?
We are more than what one may read. One lousy opinionated post. A moment in time totaled of only minutes. And people begin to drop off.
No sweat correct...
and again and more leave...
Left to wonder of what really should be written. Silliness and rants. Yes yes we are powerful with our angry words. We are intrigued by the thoughts of philosophy. Of course we enjoy a good chuckle, now and again.
I get this.
As the sun burned quick on my skin, a feeling of comfort comes from such- the sounds, that once were my inspiration, the smells the commonality.
The bench in which you sat, now empty.
My dearest Muse, I am not begging you. I can no longer grovel, or even entice you to return to my embrace.
Just the time we had was so