Delete, home and end.
The last time I wrote something here seems like a yesterday stuck in time. There was a time when words would just dance on the paper and write themselves down, me being a mere guiding force behind the stage. Now I feel like I have five thumbs on each hand, trying to push the right letters but every other letter misses a beat and every other gets one too many. The words want to delete themselves, they're not comfortable. The words feel they're not sufficient to be here whereas once they were all that was here. I guess the words are like me. They want to delete themselves once in a while. Become nonexistent. Not existing at all. Exist, feel the word on your tongue.
Words need a home to rise back into life. Everyday life is not as inspiring as we'd probably like it to be and sometimes it's impossible to write down anything that would feel important. Today I woke up, took a shower, ate two and a half eggs, accidentally took a shower again, ate, slept a bit, woke up, ate, slept, woke up, ate, slept, up, ate, down. How can I draw inspiration from that? By finding a comfortable spot on the couch, feeling like I'm home. That's where the inspiration to write comes from, home.
I thought I had seen the end of writing days when spring ended and summer began. The longest summer of my life, the ongoing Tuesday afternoon when the week seems like it will never end. The summer deleted my words, made me look for a home and forced me to end a phase in my life. I find it ironic that the summer was probably the most boring I have lived to see but no doubt it will be one of those summers that I dare not forget.