writer's block of planetary proportions
you are boring me this life is boring me this weird domesticated whatever is boring the shit out of me.
i can't write anymore about anything and my mom asked me if it was because my writing came from a place of angst and even as she said it i knew it sounded wrong.
my best writing, my most real writing, was never about angst. angst was the dribble that had to pour out to make way for the flood. my best writing was always about love, all the myriad different ways that love, relationships and friendships present each other.
i can't write because the love in my life right now, from all angles, has become stagnant as an algea-filled pond forgotten in some overgrown backyard. i feel so little. everything means so little. it's as if everyone i know has become terrified of real intimacy, and i have no idea how to meet new people as an adult.
i just want to spend time with other writers again. to speak with people about writing, to trade work, to write together. everyone i know who used to write has given up on it as a frivolous hobby but i can't find it in myself to do that. it still means something to my life, however long this block has lasted.
the desire to run away from all of this still has not faded.