Prudent

I wanted to write a story and things have been brewing in my mind, but nothing concrete. Maybe I'll revisit this another time, yeah?

OK, so what do I even want to tell? I've effectively numbed myself to the point where I don't feel sadness anymore. I've learned to repress that, and well. Sure, things disappoint me, but they don't shake me to the point of being inspired, either. Art never comes from happiness, you know?

But life has been static and although a lot of things and people have made me very happy, I never want to create when I'm happy. I want to create when I'm sinking in the lowest pits of despair. I suppose that's why I can't write anymore, huh?

it was a real love, a summer love
i met you in the summer
it was a real love, the kind of love
an angel undercover