these days i’ve been trapped in this one sentiment, slowly circling around it like a paper boat caught in a melancholy eddy. i find scraps here and there of things i once thought. robotic sentences and half-finished paragraphs, articulations swept off the table and left scattered on the floor, to be swept up later maybe. just shuffling through the debris that piles up. i keep wondering if i’m ever going to write again, have something to say or the energy to say it. i don’t think i will.

this post is just for me. just to type something again. but it all seems a wasted effort.

from the movie Her

3 thoughts on “burnt.

  1. I know you said it’s just for you, but as a writer it helps me remember that I’m not the only one who asks himself those questions. Hope you don’t mind … and thank you.


  2. The writing is within you. Like Tigger, those stripes are always there even when you can’t see them. Just like this post. You can’t belie your writing signature. So beautiful.


  3. Not all efforts bear fruit but some bear seeds of beginings and eventually we see the results when they flower when we least expect. Maybe the mystery is what we cannot see or understand in the present and our impatience to watch it grow. Eventually the meaning becomes more clear as the meandering path becomes straighter.


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