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?