Work has left me drained.
Drained of inspiration. Drained of passion. Drained of the things that usually sustain me.
Minus the time spent on Twitter, I haven’t been inspired lately to create. It’s not a matter of time, it’s a matter of drive. The passion isn’t there. I can still feel it, smouldering under the ashes. It cries to be given air, to be flare again.
I miss writing fiction. I miss writing for pure pleasure.
That world seems so drab now. It misses several elements, more importantly the element of letting it run as it likes.
Sigh. Back to work.