If you miss the stories, the ideas pulled from corners, then comfort yourself with the fact that I do too. In truth, I was never any kind of writer, because the basis of every fiction I created was rarely anything but myself. Me: sieved, granulated and sprinkled over a surfeit of adjectives.
I was always going to be a finite supply of thoughts and ideas. I realised that from the outset, but somehow convinced myself that the plentiful stock would never run dry. When life stopped happening, entered hibernation and lost itself in stasis, so too did the creativity. I yearn to find it again, wherever it’s hiding, but I don’t even know where to start. Mind foggy, eyes shut, breathing untroubled. I’m having trouble shouting at myself to wake up, wake up, wake up, you fool.
I no longer find escape in the words, the pictures or the sounds I once held so dear. I’ve become a repetitive drone, for whom every thought is a Herculean effort. I’m not ashamed to say that I need a spark. I need to be lit, burned. I want flames to consume me again, before I forget how that felt. Before I become entirely numb.
Wanted: someone to pour on the accelerant, to throw a match and then, instead of standing well back, move closer and burn with me. I’ll scrawl this on a postcard, stick it in the newsagent’s window. Apply within.