Crossroad

The amount of dust on my desk tells me how long it was since the last time I sat on this position typing away from my own laptop.

There were waves of pangs for me to write - and I wanted to write so badly.

Got back home, dropped my bag and I told myself, okay tonight it is.

Dragged myself to shower; and then the next thing I know was me in the bed snuggling to sleep.

Day in day out. Repeated on loop.

And I don't even know what I was doing.

Nothing feels 'real'. Nothing felt solid.

So I thought maybe writing could bring some evidence to me that there are proof that I am 'getting' and 'doing' something.

But no.

And perhaps that's why I wanted to write so badly, but I couldn't get myself to write.

Because there's nothing.




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