I used to have the urge to write all the time, just to indulge those itchy fingers and get those mundane thoughts out into the ether, get them out of me. Now I spend a lot of time thinking about sitting down to write something and then thinking about what I would write and getting SO FUCKING BORED with myself. I have nothing to add to the conversation at large. I never did, probably, but I used to do it anyway because that’s what you did on the internet seven years ago.
It’s annoying. I’m mad at my muse; she is off somewhere without me and I always get this way when I feel abandoned.