This isn't a memory, this is present . . .

Lately, I've found myself beyond frustrated. With myself? Perhaps. I find myself unable to formulate the words. Unable to articulate what I have in my head. Hell, I have nothing in my head. I've become useless, lost in my inability to do the thing I truly love: write. 

Of course, sitting here to complain about my inability to write is easy. In fact, I find Non Fiction simple to write. I just need to put my experiences down out of what I can remember. The thing is, I'm not a Non Fiction writer. I've always striven to write Fiction—stories of fantasy and wonder. Magic and mythological creatures of my own design. 

Stories where Earth is just an afterthought as I develop my own laws, my own rules, my own world. A world where I could see myself living because it is better than the reality of my own world. Yet, I can't find inspiration to do it. And when I force myself to write it, I'm completely unsatisfied by it. 

Third person writing was my specialty and now it just looks like it was written by a child. My dream of becoming a published author feeling long gone. Hell, even writing a silly short Fiction story for online recognition feels out of my grasp. I keep reaching toward that desire, but come up empty when the time to actually write it comes. 

I blame this on my head injury. 

Something in my head just isn't happening. Connections are no longer being made. My imagination, the thing I grew up having over actively is now gone. I used to be able to picture my worlds created, but now I see nothing. Unable to form anything. 

Depressing, yet I no longer feel depressed. I don't think I'm able to feel depression anymore. That very same head injury is starting to strip me of my emotions. I went without a job for three weeks. I have a family to support and not once had I felt any urgency. What did I do in that time? I didn't write. I didn't do anything. 

I watched my wife struggle to keep us going while I simply existed. Her words unable to reach me. Her pain falling on deaf ears. Even now, I feel no urgency. I don't really feel anything. I could say I'm sad, but I'm not sure if that is what this is. I'm just frustrated. 

Eliseanton. You came into my life around the time I started getting my head back together. You came into my life at a point that without you I would have killed myself. Right now, I have no desire to die. My desire is far from it. I WANT TO LIVE! I WANT TO BE ME AGAIN! 

I have to beg myself to return to what I was. I beg myself to feel inspired to write again. To not have to force out words just to stay close to writing. I realize now that without writing, I'm no longer living. I'm still doing the most basic of functions, just existing.  

Overeating, being overly lazy, no longer bidding my time to those that love me. What good am I? Yes I'm frustrated about not feeling inspiration to write. Frustrated that when I do write I find it unsatisfactory. Sadly what I'm writing here has been the best writing I've been able to do in a while. But this isn't the type of writing I want to do.

Following Eliseanton's advise, I'm writing this in order to reconnect with the part of me that can no longer write. Trying to establish a connection with my former self so that I can move forward. Though the clogged feeling in my head remains. Writing this is going to change nothing. I'm not seeking empathy, nor am I seeking sympathy. I'm seeking myself. 

Perhaps this is what is supposed to happen in my life. The grand scheme of things preventing me to do what I love. What kind of God does this to me? I'm a good person. I'm always helping people and doing my best to be a good person. Yet, the only thing in this world I want is taken from me!? 

Well, I feel I'm just ranting at this point. Repeating the same thing over and over. This hasn't cured me of my affliction. I'm sorry for wasting anyone that has read this little post's time. 

I'm truly sorry.