there's a big blinding light that shines straight through my eyes, into my soul whenever the pen touches paper, whenever fingers stroke the keys. It spotlights nothing. I call this automatic writing - an inhibition of creativity that's no longer spirited nor guided by voices, a physical reaction to a need long quelled by practice.

I call it indifference, too.

the problem with the rational is that a rationale is all she needs. I have long been satiated by justifications of the unexplainable, the precise chaos of emotions and feel no more, the need to document this lest in a jotter book with mathematical interpretations of why what how and where my feelings have left me for the consolation of knowing why such feelings should return.