I write to you this insight, which I consider to be highly insignificant, to pull out the contents of my bleak heart. No, this isn't a gloomy piece that would give you the impression I'm Emo or something of the like. It's simply that I've been suffering from the most morbid of diseases that could ever touch a writer and I thought one of you guys would succeed to understand me- or even better, to help me.
Yet again, do not cringe from the poor quality of my vocabulary, for my words seem to have gone lost from my impassive mind!
I and you might have an in common that we both love writing and take it to be the closest thing to air and food. In fact, those two things I mentioned are less important than my pen to run against the whiteness of my Cross notebook. Well, you probably know how I feel, right?
But no more, can I write properly! It's as though I've done the most terrible of deeds against someone and I was cursed with lack of inspiration for the remainder of my life. I spread my fingers on the black keyboard of my laptop and they end up tapping the least interesting of words, so I decide to use the traditional way of writing. The same word is written more than three times in the same page, my tacky style serves my protagonist's thoughts the least and my courage only manage to fade with every metaphor I use. Opening me notebook, I press the tip of my Japanese pen in morbid anxiety that my rusted brain cells might not help me.
And my assumption, shamefully, turns out to be true. I dare not to call it a prediction, because I fear to jinx myself with such an expression forever. A nasty thought, it truly is, that I might grow aloof towards my beloved protagonist while I try to get used to the new daily routine I'm forced to humor.
It's torture!
So you understand me? You might help me?
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