I don’t know what to write. I have been numb to the touch of the keypad for months and I’m aching for some form of inspiration. There is nothing that I want to put on paper. There is nothing that I want to say. I am exhausted. My days flow together into a confusion of sameness. Work has become nothing more than a flow of income as it slowly pulls the joy out of my day. At home there is not much relief. I live on the defensive, covering my tracks and building a wall around what should be a guaranteed place of safety. Few interactions are pleasant. Most leave me constantly questioning the state of their reality. Of course, I could write about that, and I’m sure that I will. But it’s better to wait to avoid any matter of offense, although some deserve to be offended. It is possible that it is the environment that has diagnosed me with this serious case of writer’s block, and it is the idea that I am most likely to blame. How is one to create when they are surrounded by so many unhealthy distractions? I have yet to find the answer to this question.
I am exhausted.