I used to write. I wrote until I fell asleep. I transcribed my feelings as if they were primed in the act of fading away. As if they were dreams destined to escape me unless I captured them in a jar. I wrote well. I wrote magnificence. I was so young to feel the way that I did. I’ve aged and assumed that much of that period of my life can be attributed to my naivety, but something amazing just happened. While in the process of cleaning out the notes on my laptop I began to read. I read every word and I felt much like I did long ago. The outside world was paused by every comma, silenced by every period, and heightened by every instance of capitalization. What happened to me? When did I become so dull? I had such passion for life. I loved like I was forty. I loved like it was all that I knew and maybe it was. I guess we should establish that love wasn’t pretty. It hurt. The pain was insurmountable. Maybe I needed it, it allowed me to feel something real. I remember drinking one night recently and thinking “This makes so much sense now.” I understood. The world’s best musicians were often victims to substance abuse and It just made everything click. They sang with passion. They sang with meaning. They wrote their hearts out. They expressed themselves in every way that they could, but feelings like that are too much for any one person to handle alone. They needed help. Mental state altering assistance and even that wasn’t enough sometimes. I guess my writing was exceptional because it was all that I had. Damn… I used to write.