The Writer That Was…

I was once a great writer, able to evoke emotion from a simple sentence, spinning colourful tales with a certain prowess I felt was sometimes beyond me.

Now I can barely string words together, helplessly filling my notepad with unfinished stories. My imagination is intact but the ability to put it to use outside work and nightmares seems to have escaped me.

Today I stare at my blog wondering when I forgot how to write. Could it be the break neck speed at which my life is moving at or the tiredness that hits me at the end of each day? Maybe I am just yet to be inspired enough to recount events as I see or imagine them?

Whatever the case, as I read through my old work I hope that I will be able to write again and maybe, just maybe I will be better than the writer I once was…


3 thoughts on “The Writer That Was…

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