I think imagination rusts when not used. The blade that carves worlds dulls, and boredom corrodes the metal. Our experiences are what hones it, and when life is a flat, invariable line of nothing, there is naught to sharpen against.
Stephen King says that if you do not read, you cannot write. Well, I read constantly. I devour books, but still I feel awkward when writing. The words are not flowing, but I’m trying. They used to come so easily…it was a way of pouring my pain onto paper. Now I’ve learned to keep everything bottled up inside and it calcifies my heart. I think my words are calcifying as well, so I am trying to make them malleable once again.
Little by little but not fast enough to suit me.