I miss the fervor with which I used to write
I miss the way words would dance in my mind until the perfect combination fell at my feet
I miss knowing more than a few good cliches and metaphors
I miss the desperation I had to explain every feeling, to describe every moment, to relish in something for longer than I experienced it because memory fades and I need the possibly exaggerated details to grasp onto
I miss not feeling brain fatigue after writing two lines or reading a single chapter
I miss the overwhelming desire to see my ideas come to life and become something other than a vision that will haunt me before I go to sleep and become lost in nightmares and lost hopes and reminders before I jump off the cliff jolting me awake just to be surrounded by complete darkness when I open my eyes just like the true ending to the fall I was just shy of landing
