Alphabetised Analogy.

For the past 4 years, I have been plagued by what could only be ‘writers block’. In partial sense, yes.. that’s what it was. I stopped creating art & I became… I do not know what I had become.

I assumed that I had stopped writing cos it had merely been an outlet for my teenage angst. I forgot what it was like to feel inspired.

It was as though the artist, the author in me had died. Along with the girl that I was. And the woman that I was becoming was merely a child smeared in her Mama's lipstick. The part of me that once wrote so freely was tired. And laid itself to rest.

Today… I have woken with a desire that I have not known in a long time. For I feel so inspired, all I want to do is write until my eyes blur & my left hand is cramped & I am surrounded by thousands of pieces of paper I could drown in them. I never want to forget this feeling again, I will write until the day I die.

And one day, someone will find my cherished words. And they may disregard them. Throw them away. Or they themselves may delve into the hysterics of my poetry, my ramblings, my diaries. And they might relate to a sentence here or there. They might too recall on their forgotten passions. And pick up the pen, a guitar, a paintbrush. And they will create.

All I hope is too inspire someone to create masterpieces. Too be their muse.