I no longer write like I used to.
Maybe it's because I've finally learned to let go. I don't have to churn anymore, over the words that no one ever told me, or the words I got.
I wonder whether the fight left me, or I left the fight.
But I do miss writing. Intensely, freely, filled with clichés and banality. There's this anxiety over it all, and it's terrible and funny, and I wish it hadn't stopped.
The End finally ended.
Something reappeared the other day, quite surprisingly, I was taken off guard by it. I never knew it was lost to begin with. The monotony might have stolen it, or maybe it was the absence of monotony that took it away.
Either way it's been reintroduced. Louder than ever.
There's this innate encryption present, that I can't seem to get rid of. I'll attempt it anyway. It's something we have in common.
Everything has gotten so large that words seem too small for anything that needs to be said. I'm waiting, speechlessly, instead. Perhaps that's the whole reason I stopped writing in the first place, come to think of it.
There still might be words left in me.