I don’t feel creative and yet here I am writing this. It’s because I want so much to feel creative. I want to feel that spark, the adrenaline, the drive, the want to create and feel something and yet I feel like a broken pencil tip, a dull razor blade, because I don’t feel anything at all.
I’m banging on the door to my heart and it isn’t answering. Maybe no one’s home right now, it’s all I can figure. My emotions went on vacation and they didn’t leave anyone to house sit inside the confines of my body. So I’m a blank slate, a walking outline of a person who once felt deeply. I will feel again when I’m not floating above these feelings. Although, it feels nice to fly away from them sometimes. Other times they are surrounding me and I don’t know what to do with them.
Not today, today I don’t feel. Today I’m an empty cup and other boring metaphors. Still I write because my fingers remind me to, and my passion, which is buried under all this gray ambiguous nothing, is peaking out through the curtains wanting to be seen.