Nothing to say

Repeat..Repeat…repeat

It’s tough when you love to write, and you have nothing to say.

Like being an empty vessel. Sitting in a void, a dark place that is absolutely silent, without even the company of ones own voice.

And it’s not even depression. Or giving up, or in.

I feel as though I am lacking insight or inspiration. Just… being..

Get up…………..

…………… Go to work

……………………….. Go home………..

…………. Go to bed………………………

****Repeat..Repeat…repeat****

I don’t remember the last time I have watched, or for that matter, appreciated, a sunrise or sunset. Perhaps I need to do that.

As I reflect over my words, I realize it could be….

…DEPRESSION.

WELL FUCK MY LIFE!

My life doesn’t suck… geez Dan always so dramatic.

Time to face the fact that perhaps,I am chemically defective. Yup, broken. Emotionally handicapped. Cray -Cray

So do I go down to see my local psych doc. Let him poke around the old mass of grey matter. Pick at my emotional and mental regions so that he can stamp me with a label that will keep me from owning guns?!?!

Fuck that!

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