I haven't been writing as much as I used to. It feels foreign not to write, but there's just nothing to say. My head is blank. Empty. My journal holds pointless, useless information about my day. What I did, who I saw, where I went, who I'm crushing on, who I love, who I hate... for lack of a better word. What happened to the metaphor? What happened to my brain swarming with injured thoughts about society? Where is the poetry in my every day, the dark horse that kept me shining?
"I can only write when I'm sad," I tell people.
I really don't think that's true. I think my brain feels dull, sullen, nervous, confused, overworked from all the bullshit that I shove into it every day. It's turning it's back on me, scorning me for no longer trying to think deeper, feel deeper, see the bigger picture. Feel deeper. Emotions don't come easy anymore. They're very easy to hide among the workload of my life. I make excuses not to feel and not to care. I don't want to get hurt.
"Nobody wants to get hurt," you say, but hurt comes too quickly and too easily for a girl like me. I fall too hard, too fast for those who don't understand me but who I wish understood me. I gravitate toward the unfamiliar because I can't face the fact that someone might actually give a shit. That's the worst part. I do this to myself.
I should really be more careful.
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