So I tried to write again after a long absence of actually write writing. This is what I came up with:

Ever reached a crossroad, a junction with four possible routes? You take a breathe, and it’s like the first breathe of fresh air you’ve had since being congested; at last out of that room filled with stagnant cigarette smoke. It’s refreshing like spearmint. The coolness collapsing into your lungs, like an avalanche coursing through your capillaries – a rush.  Standing in the the middle of the junction, with glances at each route, you close your eyes and embrace every microscopical atom that composes everything around you. You take it all in, and then you make a choice. You make a choice, and after exhaling, you take a step towards the route you want to take.

And then I wrote about how I felt after writing what I wrote above…

It’s exasperating, this affliction in my head that causes so much agony: the feeling of inadequacy. It is as if this world was silent, and no matter what I uttered, it would only emit as silent screaming, and not a soul could understand me, or let alone hear me. I can’t even hear myself. But not caring about the others, there is nothing more that I want than to be able to whisper the words to myself at least, and have them caress my inner need to create nonsensical words which are only sensible to me. Every word that does come out is inferior to my intended meaning – it’s just not coming out the way it’s supposed to. This indicated shortcoming only makes it worse. I start to disbelieve, which in turn negatively affects my confidence, and thus leading to the mental incapability to compose anything good. This self perpetuating cycle conceived out of my own head is what prohibits me, like an unlawful cop that puts a halt to all my thoughts, making them move slowly across my synapses. Stupid pigs. I have to actually try now, to think of the words until it strains my noggin, whereas before I wouldn’t have to, the words would come to me like a stampede of buffaloes – unstoppable, unmerciful, and breathtakingly confusing – lacking any sense of purpose. It was amazing, an open bar party up in my head. But now, every sentence eludes me. I’m chasing them down, hunting them, but failing. Even if I imagine them miraculously appearing, when the time comes actualize them in reality, and put them on paper, they run away again – damn sentences and stupid words… or perhaps it’s my rifle?

Maybe it’s because I don’t read as much anymore.