I don’t write for you anymore.

Words failed me these past few weeks. It wasn’t because of the lack of inspiration, but a matter of bad timing. My sudden bursts happen when my hands are preoccupied and the handy dandy notebook is out of reach. I rarely skim through my previous posts nowadays partly because most of my thoughts and writings are cringe-worthy and partly because I simply don’t want to remember the pointless devotion I had for unworthy people things.

About a few weeks ago, I tried to recall why I feel strange about a certain date. The blog showed me why and I let out a sigh of relief. I never thought I’d arrive to this point. I really never thought I would. I had an undeserving subject through the years and finally, it was kicked out of my consciousness.

I have been trapped in a cell and wrapped up with a heavy hat full of memories that don’t deserve a cubic millimeter of my awareness. Although I’m thankful for if it wasn’t for all the deception, everything else would not have come into play.

This writer’s block is quite a good sign. “Write hard and clear about what hurts,” said Ernest Hemingway. I have no anger, regret, and frustration left that can drive me to write about pain and what-could-have-beens anymore.   I have allowed another to cause me strain.

You have lost your immortality. A new subject has come.


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