entropy

There was a time when I could actually write worth shit, when curse words weren't the first thing that came to my mind to describe how I felt, when I used parallelism and it actually worked.

I'm not feeling like myself today.

I can keep telling myself that it's just two months, and then I feel terrible afterwards, because this isn't how it's supposed to be. It's supposed to be a success story, the American dream, manifest destiny and what have you.

It's not.

I can talk all I want, but I've always been a talker, and I talk and I talk but I never say much.

There was a time when my words had meaning. There was a time when I could create color out of panes of glass.

There was a time when I was the sun in my own solar system, the protagonist in my own Bible...perhaps it's best that those times are past.

Now I want to be someone else's sun. But there's a problem therein: with suns come eclipses.

With light comes darkness. Everything has its opposite.

I am the sun, and they are the moon, and I have two months left with them. I have two months until I can hold my world without having to go down at night.

I think this metaphor has been strangled to death.

I think I should get over myself.

I think.