My finger gets stuck on the delete button, today isn’t a good day to write (lately it never is). It feels too routine and demanding like it no longer has my pleasure but that of a ghost that harasses me to write until my bones have cramps.

So all the writings that I think remain in suspensive dots, because whenever I desire to write I hear the crush of my frustration that turns into anger, and I know what to do, but I don’t want to. Because it has become tedious, it has become a wheel that has lost its appeal, and I’m not saying of quitting, God never that, I have too much life put into this.

It’s more that I need that emotional distance that many have taken with me. I need to get out and remember how the air is like without ink, how the sun shines without a cell and my voice without the echo of the critiques. I need not to hate what passions me because I’m puking every time I try, and I don’t like who I'm turning into, I don’t like to despise the only good thing in me. 

So this is an: “Give me time that I’ll be right back” and “I’m taking five, and then I’ll continue”.

TA.