Not Used To

I used to be like a stream in the countryside, free flowing. Adventurous. Liberated. I can expund on anything that I want to talk about. I was the conversationalist. Things arond me “inspired”
me to do such, and because of that, I feel great about what I do.

Now, I am nothing but a hollow log. Empty. Senseless. I cannot even make the words in my poetry fit! I always run out of things to say. Actually, if one sees my former multiply sites, and, I said more sense. Did emotions really play a part in my writing? I am water. I bring forth change.

Change. It is an inevitable thing. Yet, I cannot adhere myself to it. For months, I have been contemplating on the fact that I just cant go on with progress in my life. People see me as some chemistry geek, reading the LeMay and Brown book, browsing some McMurry and Leithold, but deep inside, I tend to be immature, especially when it comes to emotions.



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