I really like this person’s willingness to at least let the words out just for the sake of setting them free. The title is what I’m hoping for too.
I cannot find my words. They’ve tapered off, left me a bit dazed, a lot confused. There’s a mass of abandoned sentences everywhere, piled around me in frustration and almost-anger. There’s the unfinished translation of emotions and vacant stories and lingering thoughts everywhere. I cannot get rid of them, they’re rotting under my fingertips, and my discomfort shouldn’t be this debilitating.
I don’t think so.
I feel like I’m standing in the skeleton of a house. Raw wood beams and wobbly floors and sky visible through the shambles of a roof. It’s full of nothing.
Is this what writer’s block is? I don’t like it all that much.
Not one bit.
In other words,
the end is a step and a half away
and then there is the summer
and the books
and the light
and all the words i could ever dream of
it shall be dazzling
i do hope
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