I used to write a lot and then I met a girl and lost her and just couldn’t write anymore.
I then met another girl who said the most wonderful things to me. The weekend when I could see it ending I wrote briefly in the book I was reading. I think of it as the remnants of what was leftover.
Then I met a wonderful girl who wasn’t who I thought she was and lost yet again but this time in the most disappointing matter. “Left an empty shell of me.”
It’s easy to see the loss of appeal I am enduring. Yet, the only thing I have lost is myself. I just can’t find myself. I don’t know where I went.
*And while I love writing, for me it was always about love and sadness. I got tired of writing about that, or maybe just scared to revisit them, I am not sure.
In love and in sadness.