It’s been a long time since I wrote anything—of course, not anything but any creative piece. It’s been a really long year! A very long one, actually!

I have had more ups and downs than a roller coaster. Albeit it’s been amazing, I have fallen in love, fallen out, got my heart broken, been a hoe in the streets, left a job, got another, got promoted, lost a good friend to death’s cold hands, had hope, became hopeless but not homeless! Permit me to take a minute to catch my breath again!

Although it’s arguably true that, as a writer, this is pure content, honestly? I agree. But I have had this huge writer's block for the longest time, which has left me feeling unworthy of this gift.

Gone are the days when, as a prolific writer, I could command metaphors and they would obey. But ever since Odin banished me from the writing realm, I must once again prove myself.

One of the many blockers has been the scuffle between my brain and heart. One wants to write about a love story over and over again, but the other refuses to write about any of that at all. It’s been a hassle. It was such a beautiful love story. One whose memories begin to feel like a fairytale, but regardless, fuck love! Got a man like all soft, sweetened red cheeks, muffling and whispering love words over the phone, but here I am: I hope you aren’t taking a laugh at me; I would have placed a mother’s curse on you, that ye may never find love, but you’re not lovable—so there’s that.

Another major blocker has been discovering I’m such a prolific writer. About 3 years ago, I read somewhere, “Never tell yourself a story.” The writer’s argument is that when you tell yourself a story too often, you believe, and a lot of time that hinders creativity.

When I began to write, it was my only means to express myself, and at some point, I began to truly enjoy it. To the point where I fell in love with someone just to get my heart broken, it was a learning curve I needed.

A broken heart, a pen, and me against the world, I wrote of every drop of emotion I bled; it carved me into such an amazing writer, a story I began to tell myself so often that I became a mirage of what I was. Me. A counterfeit of myself. So I could never live up to the legend. Such an irony.

As a Phoenix must burn itself at the pyre to be reborn, perhaps this is mine, but a better me I cannot assure, but this who lives must die. At best, he’s just another with a pen and one of the wonders of the universe. How could I choose to be ordinary? Ordinary and predictable. So aye! Light up the stakes!