[edited because i got bored]

the thing about writing is this: when you are devoid of a muse, words no longer come as easily as it used to; and the mental high you once found yourself attaining through the careful weaving of words into immaculate sentences is no longer within your grasp. instead you are left with a void and wondering why the hell you are still writing when you find yourself lacking the primordial need to write that used to fuel you into manipulating worlds for your escape.

sigh, i think i've misplaced my muse. anyway, excuse this little bout of nonsense, i'm trying to depress myself enough to write cause i seriously hate being unable to finish the first chapter of my novel. stupid brain, i kill you.


onto something relatively amusing: my sixteen year old self.