I miss the days I used to write, is just like somehow the fact that I was putting down my feelings into words made them more real. I know it’s strange, but I believe the majority of the time I don’t even realize what I feel. Lately the majority of the days I feel quite lost, like if I’m just flying with the wind, just letting myself go without the notion of who I really am, or who I want to be.
I have to confess I don’t know who I am, nor what I want. Well, I know I want to be with him the rest of my days, but apart from him it seems all my passion is gone. I no longer write, I even rarely read anything… but the words it’s really troubling me. They’ve always been part of me, they were part of who I am. Through the words I would discover myself, like the mirror where I could see the real me, but now I feel lost without them.
The days keep on moving, my look is ageing but I… I… interesting notion of a self. It’s like somehow my inner self went on a long journey outside my own body, or it’s trapped someplace else, and what is here is just a shelf with a fraction of a soul just to make me keep on moving.
I wish I know how to find me back, I wish I could hold all I was, all the strength but most of all, the passion that could move mountains, even the anger of not being recognized for who I was.
It’s strange to have all I always longed for but not being present, I know there’s something missing inside of me but I have no clue about what it is.
Until I can find myself in the blank pages of my book I will keep on walking.