Slate Clean

I can't write anymore. I have very little inspiration. No voice. No audience. No love. Probably no hope.

There was a time that I carried my journal with me everywhere. I couldn't leave the house without my large messenger bag with my journal, a bag full of choice pens, books to read for inspiration, inks and chalks and markers and colored pencils and the kitchen sink....now?! I leave with keys. my phone. identification.

My poor journal sits neglected with maybe an entry once every couple of months. Forced. Same here.

Why bother?!

I feel abandoned. I keep saying it. My soul feels battered and abused and lonely. Left by parents and friends...and lovers who said they would never leave. Who said they could withstand the darkest part of my sorrow and just hold out and hold me.

I withdraw. It seems what everyone wants. For me to be the quiet, good girl. No complaints. No emotion. No want nor need. Just a blob of nothingness.

I'm unhappy. I'm always unhappy. And I hate that's what I seem to only have to share. So I don't. So I keep the slate clean. And I remain unhappy.