I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
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I miss being an inspired human being.
I long for the days when I had miles to write and hours to read.
I regret the days I spent scrubbing my brain of talent and replacing it with sick cold anger and scar tissue.
I wish I could take back the words I lost in my haze of little bad habits and self loathing.
My keyboard scares me.
I hate that I cry when I delete my writing.
Before, I felt so lucid that I may as well have been staring at the words as though they’d already been written.
Now nothing is good enough and where creativity once hid is a pitch black place so empty it echoes through my skull.
I didn’t know writers block was so abysmal.
