I could spend hours staring at the blank, empty blog entry that's right in front of my eyes. I could, and yet nothing would pop out into my blank, empty mind. I haven't written anything decent in months. I am so disappointed at myself. I mean, writing and literature mean so much to me and I can't even finish a book these days. I am listening to Incubus now, and they are not making me feel better. They always do. Music always does. Writing always makes me feel better. Stories. Just sinking into my imagination and killing time. That used to feel so good. It was amazing. It was the best feeling in the world, and now it's gone.
But it's gonna come back. This can't leave me. It's still inside of me and it's still me.
Or isn't it?
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