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I hate writer’s block sometimes.

I miss the days when I was able to write poetry – words that smoothly flow from my mind to my fingertips, written messily on a worn steno notebook I always kept in my bag. I wrote about everything – butterflies, the sky, how love can ache in places that didn’t seem to exist, how I never understood, chocolate. I miss being able to write in a way that left so much space for interpretation. I really miss writing poetry, and it hurts that I never seem to write poetry anymore.

I miss the days when I was able to compose songs – lyrics perfectly mixed with a tune I often found pleasing to the ears. I wrote lyrics the way it seemed like in the movies – tons of scratched out lyrics, sketches and doodles on the margins, a blotch of tears on the occasional page. I miss being able to sit down, form a tune and spurt out music from my mouth – music that mattered to me, and music that seemed to matter to other people. Now, I sit and make covers – songs probably sung a million times over, never better than the original.

I miss the days when I was able to finish a story – how the plot twists and forms a beautiful web in my mind, how the characters grain themselves into my head and itch me to tell their story, how everything just seems to fall into place and how nobody else needed to think about happily ever after, because it was already implied. I filled notebooks with stories – of best friends who became lovers, of girls insecure about everything, of life, love and of death. I miss being able to chew on my pen until the story flowed out in my messy cursive. I really miss finishing stories, because all I have now are unfinished documents in my hard drive that I can never seem to finish.

I hate writer’s block, because my ideas flicker – they fade just as quickly as they appear. I miss the days when they used to linger.