I don't know what it is about getting old that dries out one's creative juices. I remember when I was younger, when I could write at the drop of a hat, no effort, no hang ups, just pure passion unleashed from out of my typewriter's keys or ballpoint pen.

Angst was my middle name. It was a constant thing that kept me alive. It was what made me write effortlessly, passionately.

Writing made me so happy then, which was probably the reason why I wrote better prose when I was totally miserable. It's the exact opposite now. Now when I'm in utter misery, I can't seem to write a single word. And when I do attempt to write in such a state, the words come out forced, lifeless, bone-dry.

These past few weeks have gone so fast. And yet, I feel as if I'm seeing my life in slow motion. Right now, how I wish I was younger, so I could just whip out my pen and write until I drive this dark misery away.