I tried to write something today.

Something good. Something witty and engaging.

This was as much as I could come up with.

I don’t know if it’s my age, or the effects of living in the real world that has slowly killed off the creativity in me but I can’t seem to be able to write stuff as easily these days. When I was younger I used to write loads of stuff. The amount of stories I had, both finished and unfinished, clutter the pages of tons of notebooks I’ve had from childhood to young adulthood. My youthful imagination was awash with ideas. Some of them were utterly ridiculous, but who said all fiction had to be 100% realistic? Reality is rubbish anyway, most of the time.

I suppose some might  say it is wrong of me to force myself to write something, especially if there is nothing whatsoever in my head. You can’t make yourself be creative if the ideas are not there. But sometimes I feel if I don’t put a pen to paper or fingers on a keyboard, I’d go insane. Not entirely batshit crazy, but mad enough. Writing is the way I deal with stuff. It’s what I love doing and what I want to do with my life if I could. I’d rather do that as my work than waste my days in a workplace, the boredom of it all tearing apart my lonely and fragile soul. I guess I can dream.

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