me participating in a group project
WHY AM I LAUGHING SO HARD
looks like someone owes everyone an anthropology
Gemma, you should love this
Assassin’s Creed with kittens.
He is awoke by the slightest of pats on his face. Still lost within the dream, he mistakenes his awaker as nothing but an annoyance. To the contriar, it is nothing less than his cat. His little lion man whom he loves, cheireshes, and does anything for. Also who loves his dad the best way a cat can love him. He sits regally at the edge of the bed, long hair with hints of gold and very light brown hair with stripes on all four of his legs. His tail whisking back and forth. Meaning only one thing, it’s breakfast time for this little lion.
He sits up to see his room isn’t completely dark. Which could only mean the morning is still young. Looking over at his phone he reads it as 5:37 in the morning. “Crazy cat.” he whispers under his breath not to offend him. The sultry glow of the sun penetrating his curtens distracts him from his task. He begins to wonder. Maybe this once when he swings these open his view will be different. That he won’t be still home living in his childhood room with his parents. Maybe, just maybe, he is still dreaming. He flings them open with purpose as does children do as they open their presents on Christmas morning, believing that Santa still brings them. An unabashed sigh escapes him. His cat lets open a meow so loud it’s as if his little guy magically turned into a big guy. “Alright alight. Let’s get you the good stuff.”
I am lost. Adrift at sea, only getting peeks of the horizon and my only tool being this poorly lit, well used iPad that has become my generations typewriter. Lost without words drowned out with stifling commitments of all things uninteresting. Conversations done through scenes and over microphones, blurred faces of slow internet speeds and poor connections, both through wifi and of the people using them.
I am lost because I have lost my muse. I almost could always write after a shower or after sex. Some of what I believe is my best stuff was almost always after the latter. Now I cannot write at all. Not a short story, or a poem, not even a sentence without me realizing what it am writing is garbage. I’ve already deleted what I was going to write three different times already, all not being remotely close to each other.
Without a reason to write, how can I call myself a writer? I used to come on here looking for inspiration. A picture of a place I’ve never been to, a poem that breaks your heart or fills it with love, or even something original that I, in turn find inspiration form theirs. Now, it’s silly quotes for notes, naked girls, and funny things cats do. Muse is dead.
So after a very long battle of change that I just went through, none of which brings any form of inspiration of any kind, I must go searching. For something that I once had, lost, and I must have it returned. What makes me a writer.
For those who follow me, I know I haven’t posted anything in awhile. I’ve mostly been working and playing Destiny (shiny new toy and all). Also, inspiration has been a bit slow. When I get an idea of something to write, I lose it right away.
So if you’d like to see me write something, feel free to tell me a topic or a setting or something for ideas cause I am one dry right now.
What is wrong with Giving Tree here?
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