I've been remembering the times when I used to write for hours and the words flowed from an unknown source, one that appears to be clogged as of late. Perhaps it's because I no longer read books. And I've stopped drawing. But the words still flow in and out of my thought stream and sometimes a poem catches me in the shower, but I never hold on to the ideas.

I've lost bits of myself, and I have to find them. In a way, this laptop returning to me is like a bit of a horcrux finding its way to its master.

I'm a square peg in a round world and I don't feel special. I don't feel sometimes. I laugh at the sight of sorrow. I'm insane, but functionally insane, it's about time I use it to my advantage. I remember a time when my fingers could make the keyboard sing. I'm starting to forget a lot. It began when I stopped believing in love.

Now everything is flat, redundant and predictable.