I've lost my desire to write. For years, all I did was write, on this blog, privwt oh, just typing away, and wcheiving nothing. Today, I feel broke, the enthusiasm to even type here has been lackluster. Honestly, I rather have idle hands right now, perhaps to cry into, perhaps to choke myself from this farce dream of becoming w writer. I feel lost, confused, and tired, so very tired. Like Desth reaching out to slap som esense into me, tell me I have more to live for, more time to find love, I find myself longing solitude and sperwtion from everyone and everything.
Writing, penning something, anything, and finishing it, would be a miracle. As Malacast Agent, I've written a great deal for years, and I mean years. As I grow older, I don't reflect, or take anything into perspective, instead, I think, I find myself losing what I had, and that's life. I hate msture, well, I had to grow up someone quickly, and I think I'm doing what is expect of me right now. I don't feel like I'm alive, but that will just make dying easier they say. Truthfully, we are all dying, we are all missing something in our lives.
Maybe I'm spent, maybe I spent years of my life accomplishing nothing, and I'm okay with that, so long as I don't keep repeating the same issues. Sure, some will enjoy what I've done, some will be thankful to see me stop what I've been doing for over a decade.
I literally was posting a story weekly, then monthly, finally, I've not published in nearly s year. My mother dying, it hurt, it made me hurt harder than anything I've felt before, it reminded me of that death-cry I gave when I had my first splinter. As a child, that's usually the first time you ever feel true piercing pain. Losing my mother was like my first splinter, but I'll never lose another mother, so long as I live. My mother died, she's gone, likely forever, and I'll never see her again. I can come to grips with that, and some say I shouldn't think in such a way, but it's true. She's gone. I suffer, and like most men, I'm expected to suffer alone, but luckily I haven't.
Still, I hate feeling vulnerable, I hate asking for help, but all I ever had was help for my whole life. Even my writing, if she hadn't pushed me, if she hadn't not built up my interests, I'd likely be something far worst than what I am today. She made me come out of my cocoon of downtrodden sociopathy. Coming out as bisexual helped a bit, but I'm still learning that being truthful to myself, and to my family, it doesn't mean I'm better from everything else in my life. Perhaps every progress I make is lined with some apathetic retreat back to what I believe I should be. Little-to-no faith in myself, hence I come back to writing. It's always been the safe home, but I cannot create. Her not being here....it's blocked me, and I feel lethargy towards the whole damn process. I've written more books than most people who publish write in a lifetime. I was built to write, I was built to observe the species called man, and all his flaws, and the fairer sex that suffered for it. Men, women, and animal all suffer because we are truly the least capable animal on this planet. And yet, I admire what we do to escape reality, like our ancestors that carved mammoths from wood, and played with them like toys, we escape through world's we I wish were greater than our own.
Hence my reasons to reviewing games so often, and books, games before screens could be mwniullwt d, words were there to manipulate images in our mind. So I've been gone to the world for a long time, and I still don't know if I'll ever truly write again, albeit this is not a story, or fiction, but it's writing....I suppose.
I guess I'm back, I guess I'll be writing again, maybe reading again, maybe living again, piecing my world back together, but all I know is that I miss writing, I miss making up stories that hundreds of people have read, unprecedented to me, and it's a shame I didn't take off and carry forward, but I have a job, a potential career as a cashier, and that's not terrible, in-fact, it feels comfortable, and safe. As safe as a linen-lined lead casket, cemented in the earth to house me for eternity. I'm back, that's all I know, and it's as scary as my first post, it makes me think I'm no longer what I was, but that's fine, so long as I didn't loose a piece of myself somewhere in this self-proclaimed annihilation.
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