How could I have forgotten? The city is so tranquil in the glow of the sunlight. How could I have forgotten its beauty, the inspiration for so many untold stories? I suppose I have forgotten myself, become obsessed with having a career, a purpose, a direction rather than flourishing in the joy of being lost and enjoying the journey.
Now I am cursed with remembering, and being aware of what I have become. This is not a case of ‘can we start again, please’ but rather a case of trying to remember how to fill the void, how to quench the thirst to create. I’ve forgotten how to bleed my imagination and spit out inky black words, full of life and colour and texture.
I suppressed it for so long, trying to be ‘professional’ or ‘grown up’, so now… maybe it’s gone. Even as my old fictional friend knocks at the door, I can’t help him. I can’t offer him any aid or purpose, and I can hear him howl and wail and cry on the other side of that door. Would he have been better dead and gone rather than alive and yearning for life?