I can’t tell you the last time I felt something enough to actually write. My creativity has been draining from my head as if someone had started to siphon it out, only to be replaced with warm air and dirty thoughts. Writing used to be my outlet, my hiding place in the real world, my lover. Now it feels forced. Like I’ve been left behind in a cold, cruel world full of sneering glances and smug looks. I need to write again. But more importantly, I need to feel again. Self medicating is never the answer but I can’t even tell you how I did that. My body’s just shut down so that my brain has no real use. I’m constantly swimming in numbers and spreadsheets; my left brain growing stronger by the day while my right grows weak and useless. It’s not work’s fault; work pays the bills. My job gives me a chance to make it in the world on my own so that I won’t needs a partner to take care of me. But by subconsciously devoting the majority of my time and brain to the math behind the ads, I’ve started to accidentally kill all of the lovely words that used to live there. Words used to flow out of my hands like webs, sticking to things they found a emotional connection with. Now they hide in my brain under percents and behind fractions. Can there be a common ground? How do I find the no man’s land between them to bring them together? Where is the neutral area to eat Christmas dinner on?I’m starting to see writing as if it were a chore, one I try to avoid by focusing on the ceiling fan. I never wanted this. I just wanted to be free. Instead I’ve caged myself in an excel document.