Where are the worlds I crafted from scratch, the characters of depth from my old life? Where has the winding plots gone. The narratives that once amazed me? Where is the magic that once coursed through my veins? Putting pencil to paper has become a burden to me, because nothing ever good comes from it. It’s a simple block I tell myself. At this point has it become something more? Has my passion left me? Am I no longer a crafter of words? A magician who’s wand is simply a pencil? The most powerful weapon known to man?
I can no longer wield it’s power. I must become stronger.