This won’t be the best of my works. Hell, it’s not even a work. I haven’t been writing lately. Come to think of it, I haven’t been practicing any art.
She’s not happy, my inner artist. Oh no, if she’s anything like me, she’d probably be doing a great show of rolling her eyes at me, her mouth pressed in a straight line.
Honestly, there’s no one to blame. When you start leading an almost robotic life, the scope of inspiration is reduced to null and the void that is created in the absence of inspiration is fucking heavy to carry everyday.
Even sadder is that I’ve left small joys of life behind too. Behind what, I do not know. But I don’t apply eyeliner anymore, I don’t do snapchat stories anymore, I don’t read anymore, I don’t crave Kit Kats anymore. Why? I simply don’t have the will to.
Everything that I do nowadays is being done out of obligation. When I wake up, there’s nothing to look forward to and my bed is the only place where I am able to find peace. At least, sleep is faithful to me.
I don’t love the things that I used to, anymore, but I haven’t developed any new dislikes either. It’s strange! Who was that person that used to skip classes just to enjoy a cup of coffee?
Again, I don’t have an answer.
All I know is that the music is losing it’s meaning, the words seem like a jumbled disarray of alphabets, the sceneries aren’t picturesque anymore. Every emotion that is demanded of me is superficial and so are the relationships of which I am required to be a part of.
You know about how someone becomes a part of your life, you give them a piece of yourselves?
I’ve lost many a people in the span of 2016-2017, literally and otherwise, and I guess somewhere in the process of losing them, I lost myself too.