Since someone asked whether I was still writing or mundane life ate me: I'm still writing. Although infrequent. Which is curious, since the course of events in my life these past six or seven months should by all means give me more than enough to write upon. Seeing as how my inspiration has fled from me, however, I'll just give a quick resume of past events, to at least somewhat quell the burning curiosity which must haunt you all to madness, even though you're kind enough not to give expression to said curiosity.

Last July, my shakily deconstructed life finally came to a rumbling collapse. Several years of financial neglect, social overconsumption and drug-use finally took it's toll, and I decided to finally throw in the towel and move back to my parents to try and fix the mess I worked hard to get myself into.
I thought this to be a pretty gutsy move on my part, and alot of people agreed. I lost my independence, though. But what the hell: small loss, great gain. I started working on getting my life back on track, all the more since I had a girlfriend for over a year, whom I loved most dearly and did not want to lose.

Past tense. Uh-oh. Great revelation. And indeed: my girlfriend moved away, to a city some hours travelling, to pursue her dream of becoming a professional dancer. No biggie; but distance is killer in some relationships. Especially so since she decided to cheat on me within a month after she moved away.

Aww.

Now this left me with absolutely nothing. A most fearful thing to undergo. I had already hit rock bottom, but this final push quite liturally rammed me well and truly a fair distance towards the centre of the earth.
And, being interred there, with a hint of sky far above me, I decided to try and crawl out. Now, this is a thing not easily managed on one's own. I called for help. And help came: in the form of pretty little pills called Anti-depressants.

And lo and behold: the very feelings which up until then managed to inspire me to write whatever overly-romantic and hopeless pseudo-poetic drivel happened to spring to mind, died down into something which could almost be termed 'normal'. I hadn't written anything for over a year, so little was lost on that account, but now it seemed that my writing days were finally over, and NOT because I had finally found someone to love and hold like the wish I expressed in all the shite I wrote these past years.

However. As my latest little poem illustrates, I find myself furious beyond my own expectations. Even though I cannot find the words to properly give expression to it, and I'm not sure I'm willing to start the search.

There's a pretty fat chance I'll never be submitting any work anymore. I've been growing sick of the whining kind of feeling behind each and every piece I've written, and I can say that right now I do not feel any inclination to ever write any more of it. Even though I've been getting some pretty positive responses to some of my work, in general I believe that the adolescence emanating from every corner of my gallery is something I'd rather kill and leave to rot than to entertain for the rest of my life.

But there are no guarantees. Ever. So take the above with a slight granulation of salt. I've already written one new piece, after almost two years of not even trying to be poetic. We shall see.