Such beautiful worlds and have the most interesting conversations all on my own. I would sit with my notebooks and pens and they would paint entire planes of existence almost as if they had their own intentions and purpose and I was the instrument being utilized. Now the ink has dried and when the pen moves across the page I have to force it leaving behind only scars and torn pages with no consistent depth or meaning.
All of my work, my beautiful mind, my creations reduced to an arid desert. More than that and yet less. Emptiness. But not the aesthetic emptiness of space between the stars and galaxies. This is the emptiness of nothing. Cold and black, heartless and without soul.
How do I climb out of this pit?