The feeling of nothing
Passion, it’s what makes a great writer. Without passion, the writer does not write. I’ve not been feeling passionate as of late. I’m not happy yet I’m not sad. I’m not in love and I’m not broken or recovering from a heartbreak. I’m just, nothing. A nothing that feels like silence. I want to write. I want to write raw passionate things — poetry and prose and fiction and memoirs and, and… and I just simply can not.
My words have no feeling, not true feeling. I want to be in love or even to be broken so that I feel SOMETHING, anything. Yet, there is nothing, there is only silence. These last few weeks, months, I have really begun to understand the truth behind the muse. My muse is always a man. It reminds me of the Hollywood version of Shakespeare and his need for a muse. At first one would see his actions under the skirts as immoral or things of the such. But from the view of the writer, you see those same actions as desperation to feel again, to feel SOMETHING, anything.