2005-06-25 @ 11:12 a.m. My senses dulled as I dip once more into the now shallow pool of eloquence. How much longer can I mask the darkness with such beauty? My words feel so foreign at my fingertips, the harsh churning of a mind now barren of all emotion and thought. The isolation consumes me, and I feel as though this is all that I am destined for. I feel nothing so deeply as this solitude. No visitor frequents my soul so often as pain. I feel no familiarity with comfort, and even as the arms of contentment wrap themselves around my being, my soul shudders from the sting of new skin against raw flesh. Freedom is a distant dream, one from which I run with grand, leaping strides.
How can I call myself a writer?
I bitch and moan and toss these overrun thoughts across the page/screen as though they were of some significance. At times such as these, I feel as though all eloquence has been drained, all emotion from which creativity stems has been dissipated. There remains only the hollow ring of empty tears as they fall from the hidden corridors of my soul.
No one should see this aching.
My Past with No Future