I do, I want to write again, to be free again, to be me again.

I miss writing. The way I thirst for something, I miss writing in that way.

Everything is written about. Its found meaning, but somehow, in time, I've lost the will to write.

I'll regain it one day, when the creativity that is lashed before me unseeds itself and where all treason finds reason. When the stories are bolder than the subtext.

I miss the old me. The one who was carefree and didn't succumb to the pressures of the apple. The one who didn't ever want to change, or find change. The one who wanted to create it.

Somehow I've lost myself, in someone else, without there being anyone else. Now how is that possible? I am the most ashamed version of what was once, is now a skeleton of mine.

I want the butterflies and fireflies, the impassioned days and hazy nights. The lust and wonder, passion and ignition. The reason for being outside of just being.

I want to feel again, to be free again from myself, or myself. I want to hope again and dream again, bigger better larger, more senseless than ever.

Because then, when it made least sense, was when I made the most sense.

I do, I want to write again, to be free again, to be me again.