“That’s all I can stands, and I can’t stands no more.” – Popeye the Sailor
I’m drinking deep of the well of inspiration and I find myself parched; these are the moments that I don’t feel like writing, and I can’t write anything of value. True, I have a share in things that may compel you to buy stuff, but there’s nothing like being bone-tired and bored, and realizing that you’re a bit rusty, tired, and you may need to take up other hobbies.
Like brushing up on photography, or playing computer games. No, things have to be written. I think I’ve developed an unhealthy fixation for writing stuff that I need to lay off the blogging and the note-taking and the demands of being creative before I go insane. I can’t help it, though. I think I have the rest of my life cut out for me. That’s a good thing, but it’s becoming a bit frustrating. You know what I mean?
“Why are you not writing about politics anymore, dude?” a friend of mine asked. To be honest, I don’t know why: I can probably give you a dozen reasons, and it all boils down to exhaustion. Losing faith; the institutions and systems and personalities who are supposed to run this country have failed us in so many different instances that you don’t know where to start, where to begin, and every proposal out there triggers the inner cynic in you to ask, “What’s the point?”
Vetallano Acosta.