I can't exactly explain the title because I don't quite know myself what it means. But then again maybe I do. I used to write. Now I lean against a cold distant brick wall, and I can claim no attempts of kindling an old flame. It just left me one day; the urge, the driving need to write. I kind of sort of wander and feel an emptiness inside. When I became connected to someone it slowly started to slip away. Was I lifted from my life long angst? Maybe the void I feel just needs to be filled with happiness...as the angst no longer feeds from me. But not everything I used to write was depressing and angry. I wrote abstract flash fiction - what happened to that? I loved it.
Make me.
No comments:
Post a Comment