The realisation that I am lacking in my writing again is sinking in deep. And it's a hopeless feeling. I think it's the realisation that I'm lacking in my writing still. A year and 8 months later, and I'm coming up empty-handed. Empty-minded. Empty empty empty. Lacking in so many different ways, motivation, content, creativity. I miss the feeling of words flowing from heart to head to fingertips. I miss the glow of a good story, the characters that speak to me. But, I'm moving on, I guess... Maybe my writing was a chapter I have to leave behind. I hate to do so though. Writing and books in general have been such a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember. What will I do without the words? I keep trundling along though... hoping that something will appear. Maybe my muse will reappear. I am seriously doubting it now. As I become more involved with the works of literature around me, I become more aware of how much mine is lacking. Maybe my muse isn't coming back because it has an inferiority complex?

I've switched to photography more and more. It's satisfying, the colours are dazzling and comforting. I have things to look forward to: my garden filling out, the promise of a sunshine-filled day giving me the perfect shadows. And especially the summer storms to chase late at night. The storm chasing gives me a thrill, I can't wait for them to hit this year. I can't wait to be out there, in the middle of it. Standing in the wind and the rain and staring at the flickers of lightening surrounding me. I feel alive again. Careless. Good. Maybe a little bit suicidal.

It'll be alright in the end. That's what I keep telling myself. But I'm not seeing any opening in sight. I'm still going in circles, spirals of a downward motion. I just need the motivation to get myself out of this hole. Where do I find it?

There's more, I guess, to it all. That I don't really trust enough to pour out here of all places. Or to anyone. Still searching for that outlet. Maybe this is my plaintive cry for help, as pathetic as it is...