I feel alone.
And I have forgotten how to write.
once I use to flirt with linguistic possibilities
and now I just don’t do anything…
I don’t write anymore
writing has not been killed in me
but I don’t know what to write
or, how to write
or, is it makes sense to me to write?
I asked myself this question
as I write this, and in the writing what I wrote may be a start or not}
I always tried to be hopeful; I still am
I just think I am too old
my youthful exuberance has failed me
my life is nothing but security and in that I found insecurities
I had and have passions but who wishes to know them or understand – does it really matter?
Perhaps, I have failed for now.
perhaps, I won’t fail again.
But…if failures means I have tried
isn’t that evidence enough for some kind of existence…
Category: fragmentory, Humanity, Identity, Inked Arteries, journal, Life Perspectives, Metaphysical, Philosophy, poetry, Psychological, Realities, ScribbleNibbles, social issues, Society, Socio-Politics, song, Spiritual, Writing, Writing, WritingsTags: alone, depressed, loneliness, poem, poen, poetry, sad, write, Writing