I thought it'd be different this time around, but in the end it never is. I've stopped my consistent writing for almost a year now. I kept changing notepads, the results were never quite what I was hoping for. And now, weblogs... still no spark. I walked home all the way from work yesterday, taking a path all too familiar (Oh no! Intersection up ahead.) in hopes of some inspiration, some fond memories. I took a longer path home, through our old block, taking in the changes and choking on innumerous emotions, each experienced in countless different ways, over the six years or so I'd spent living there. So surely, you'd think I could come up with something better than THIS... A close friend left last night. Another vaguely asked not to be called again, unless it was urgent. I have to attend a goodbye party tomorrow, a day I knew would come, but never even began to imagine it really happening. Too much is changing, too fast; and yet it's not enough. I feel as though I'm bored, the whole process is being prolonged despite my desire. Nothing, nothing seems good enough, not anymore.
