Sing me to sleep.

Why am I writing?

Perhaps I think it'll help me.

I used to write for the sake of writing. Writing was my escape, my first love.
Still, I find I never do anymore. This blog is enough testament to that. Why did I stop writing?

Perhaps I thought the events of my life don't merit writing down. I must admit I felt I only wrote down negative things, things that I felt ashamed to return to. I felt I had no real reason to be so negative, so unsure, so... unhappy.

There is no doubt I still have those very same feelings. Before I started writing this post, I tried to write some prose instead. It was painful. I didn't get a single word down. As I tried to get into the same medium... the same writing form that used to so easily give me relief, I felt a nagging voice at the back of my head. A voice warning me of teenaged mediocrity. A voice telling me that I am no longer the high school poet aspiring to publish a book one day. I mean, what business student writes poetry anyway?

Still, as I think back to my writing days, I feel as though things used to go more smoothly in the past. Perhaps that's good old nostalgia playing its cruel tricks. Still, looking at the state of my life, thinking back to things tonight, I guess I thought writing things down will help me make sense of them. Maybe writing things down will help me understand my own "dark bend," the reasons I've found myself taking zopiclone just to drown out my subconscious' need for dark dreams and non-corporeal misadventures. Perhaps I thought, this could replace the nightmares, the uncertainty, my seemingly growing perpetual weakness.