The feeling you get when words hit the page.

My black pen used to be an extension of my left arm. Not blue. Blue ink doesn’t stick as well or stain the pages as deeply as black. You have to press harder to make the words really pop. So I stuck to black.
But in between writing with black ink and growing up, I have found less chances to write more. Loss for words, fear of repetition, lack of inspiration, too much inspiration, so much distraction (mostly distraction). Endless talks of market research and business and viral and SEO and money (oh god the money) and short and attention spans and purpose and VIRAL and MONEY. Writing has lost all flavor. It’s all been said. It’s all been said.
Writing has now been sequestered to short sips of time when no inspiration comes, when empty words are just hitting the page in the right order to make sense, like this very moment. I’ve hit literary rock bottom. So tomorrow I’ll wake up and start over again.

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