I lost count, as I often do.

For days on end, I’ve looked down at my keyboard, splaying my fingers over the keys, finding nothing. I don’t know if this is how I’ve always been, but I know it’s been this way for a long time.

My mind is a whirlpool of words, sounds and colours that move at such an incalculable speed that I cannot make head nor tails of them. What ifs and whys batter at the hatches as all my thoughts fight for an escape, wanting so desperately to be expressed but unable to stop twisting and writhing long enough for me to take a look at them.

I used to write stories. I used to keep a journal. I don’t know what I thought of that at the time, but looking back at those pages now is like looking through a window at myself. And I miss the ease of which I found those words.

But I’m not going to force myself. Not every day is happy, after all (as much as people like to tell me they should be). I’ll write when the words come.



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