Lament for the death of my creativity...

[izeveryboyin]

Today I went web surfing, trying to find some inspiration to bring me out of the dregs of yet another terrible head cold, and what I found gave me great delight, and, simultaneously, great despair. I found my old website, the one I used to update religiously every week, and I saw the creative person I once was, at such a young age. Peotry that used to make so much sense to me is now meaningless. I tried to read the Dylan Thomas poem, "Before I Knocked" forgetting that for a treasured few years, it was my favorite above all others, and it meant nothing to me. I don't even have a favorite poem anymore. And then I remembered all the forlorn notebooks, filled with years and years of poetic expression that an unforgiving ex-roommate and her assistants threw away, and I felt a strange since of loss, an ache, as I have never felt. Every beautiful thing I had ever penned, every picture I had ever created, however poor, was now lost to me forever, living in some desolate trash heap, perhaps, I thought, right along with my creativity. And I cried. For a long time. And I wished my grandmother was here to give me one of those heart-warming hugs that can replenish any empty soul, and I cried harder. Two of my greatest loves, buried, dead. Lost to me forever. And I am worse for it, I think. Yes, certainly worse. I wish to be younger, more careless, more free. I wish to be half the best version of me.

END.