Lately, relaxation comes easy, as my writing motivation has become a distant memory.

I do want to write. I think about it at least a few times a day. I think about my abandoned characters — Sam, Alex and Chris, among others. I feel I’ve left them in limbo, as they are only awaiting my fingers to release their lives into the real world.

I cannot, however, write for them right now. I can barely write for myself.

It’s not as though I have been wronged again, and lost my confidence due to another’s words or actions. I’m over that mess. I realize it’s not that, now. It’s me.

While I do have this deep desire to get words out, and into this realm of existence, I find little to no motivation to open up my journal app and force myself to pump out what I’m thinking.

It’s not translating well.

My thoughts, while seemingly well organized and make sense in my head, come out into the journal as an eruption of words that don’t play well with each other, and a flow of which is like the running rapids. Jarring and turbulent.

I’ve lost that in me which makes me make words make sense (does that make sense?). I’m not sure what it was, or where it has gone but I need it back.

I couldn’t say it’s a lack of focus, because right now, as I am forced to take the public bus home from work (apparently I have the weekends off now!) I can square away my focus, becoming tunnel visioned on what I’m writing.

But I’m not really writing anything of importance, am I? This could be summed up to a journal entry and left out of the public eye without anyone so much as batting an eyelid.

This is pointless text.

But somehow it makes me feel okay, to get even the pointless words out into the open. Like walking into the Valles Caldera, into the wide open expanse and just taking a long, deep breath followed by an explosion of words I am finally able to scream without caring who hears me.

I mean, why should I care? Do you know how many people exist on this planet? Do you know how many opinions there are, of just me alone, floating around, tainting the air?

I should care not of their delusions. Of their realities. It is not mine as mine is not theirs. We may be able to share our thoughts through our spoken tongue but we never really do it efficiently and almost never effectively.

In my experience.

But who am I to say?

I am but an opinion that taints your reality, perhaps.

But now I’m hungry, so there’s that.

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