Lost in a reverie, never to return.
A starry night but, gloomy too.
A pen clutched in my palm, my chin on the other and, the words don't flow.
I imagine, devise, and trust but, the words don't connect.
I tousle my hair in frustration, my mind pushes and pushes and pushes itself to its limit and goes all out to broaden my horizon but, I don't feel any impulse.
I waited for a miracle to supervene somehow. After all, miracles do happen.
Time flies by, so do the birds in the sky, and the people walk past their inner conflicts, unperturbed and fine.
I stay rooted to my chair, my feet tapping involuntarily, my scope of patience dwindling, and suddenly I feel unhinged.
My heart doesn't feel the felicity it once did.
My passion deluges itself in the lake of apathy.
My spirit that once jumped with glee, lies morose and broken.
I almost feel maimed. Hollow. Empty.
Despite that, I reassured, "It'll pass. You're brilliant. You're doing great enough. You're gonna get through this. You're one in a million."
Nonetheless, despite how much ever I pull out all the stops to incentivize myself, my cluttered conscience says otherwise.
Why doesn't my heart beat at full tilt anymore?
Why has my only source of joy taken a toll?
Why don't my instincts play their part in my life anymore?
Why? Why? Why?
A faint, mellow but dejected voice rings in my ears in my reverie, "Maybe you don't love me anymore."
And then I pen down the dreadful scenario and let all the words the reverie presented to me, pour.
Notes: Falling out of love with your passion (in this case writing). Plot twist at the end.