I used to be able to write.
I wouldn’t call them poems, but I wrote little texts. On my blog, in my notebook, on my skin, and in my mind. Now I’m all blank, as if I have run out of stories to tell. My texts used to be dark, not always a reflection of my mental state or emotions however. They were dark because that’s how I knew how to write. It was the darkness of my “stories” that inspired me. But why can’t I reach it now? It seems like it’s forever just beyond my reach. Perhaps as the winter settles in it will come back to me.