It's the ninth of August, year 2015 and I can't remember the last time I spent some alone time.
I've been so preoccupied with mathematical functions, morality, geothermal gradients and damned economic systems that I can't remember how to form beautiful sentences. I've let other people speak my own mind and I feel horrible and not myself and I feel like I'm aimlessly walking the roads of life and everything just feels askew. I don't even know what I want for breakfast.
Writing feels like a million miles away. I can't put my raw emotions into my works. I have four stories in my drafts, all undeveloped and abandoned and gathering up dust, not stars.
I don't feel my blood running through my veins. I feel air in my veins. I feel nothing. I know something's in here, but I don't see it, I don't feel it.
God, I can't even find a central idea on what I want to talk about.
All I know is that I want to write. That somewhere deep inside of me is the old me, the one who used to create people and didn't just blabber words for the sake of it.
So, if you are reading this, have some faith in me. Every one has to start somewhere, right?
