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My writing muscles, rusty and ridden with arthritis in their old age1, squeak and squeel2 and catch as I try to capture that once fluid rhythm that I had once known when I’d regularly fed and nourished my writing, before the neglect, before the indifference, the laziness, the unwillingness to go on in the face of difficulty. I open the faucet, expecting an outpouring, and I find that the pipes have run dry.
Frantic, I run to the well, hoping to find underground reserves buried somewhere deep inside my psyche, and I find that it too is dry.
I collapse, a rag doll, to the ground, bury my face in my hands, and I weep.
I weep bitter acrid tears, tears of acid that burn the land as they fall to the ground.
I weep for the loss of all I loved and held dear, that priceless gem, the diadem I once wore atop my head with pride.
It’s all gone now, just a ghost, a hollow emptied soul howling in pain and anguish, wandering dusty ill-lit chambers late at night, accusing me of a terrible crime. I hear its lamentations, its accusations, and I can’t help but reach the same conclusions.
I am worse than a criminal. In doing nothing, I’ve murdered myself, along with everything I loved.
I deserve to die.
Footnotes
1. I wrote this after having neglected my writing for a few months. It took me a long time to feel confident again.
2. Should be squeal.
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