I have nothing to write.

This is what lack of emotion brings. This is what being a plant really means — when you’re a writer and you lose all the words because life has saturated you and you’re already tired of the same old topics: politics, work, alcohol, humans; when you’re an artist and all your paintings are suggested by others because you have forgotten how it is to make art for yourself.

I have nothing to write except for warnings and caveats.

Or maybe, nothing, really.

Nothing at all.

I have conceded that I am yet to find inspiration because at the moment, I am not hurting. I am not confused. I am okay. Stable. At equilibrium. At the steady state.

Now the question is, am I ready to feel something again?