Inspiration is a strange thing.
I've been sitting here with this blog post empty for ten-ish minutes because I felt as though I had something to say, but I don't.
There's no poem swirling around.
There's no story to tell.
There's just me, writing about writing about nothing.
And that's where the inspiration struck, a piece about not being able to write anything at all. Being as candid as possible about a lack of understanding, inspiration, or focus.
As I sit in my room with Bojack Horseman running in the background. Diane is having a breakdown, and somehow I feel how she does, but I'm not sad. I feel without focus.
Maybe that's because I'm home, and while home is so special, and home is so warm, I'm not progressing. I'm coming back to a place that once held me and everything I am now, but without... it. And I'm not sure what it is.
But not knowing what it is also seems comforting. It's like I'm simply existing, and whilst existing, I don't have to do or become anything. I can simply be.
So that's where I'm at. Welcome to my home: confused, happy, unfocused, and simply existing.
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