When I was in my teens and early 20’s I wrote all of the time. Short stories, prose, even some poetry. Words seemed to flow easily; at times it was almost as if my mind was on fire.
So long ago, in another lifetime…
Before a career. Before stress on top of stress. Before I lost my way somewhere.
At some point I stopped writing, didn’t make the time, couldn’t find the words. I retreated into my own mind, trapped my thoughts in an abandoned corner and let them gather dust.
Now I want to write again and my mind is dull, the words come slowly. I write them down, scratch them out and try again. Mostly though I I just stare at the wall and think.
