Soon

I am here at a small chapel located at the edge of a village. This is a protestant chapel and there is no mass whatsoever tonight. The place is all mine.
Today is a Monday. I am here, alone and embraced by the quiet on an almost 7pm in the evening.

I wish to create.
***

Do you happen to know that feeling when you lie down to sleep on a 2 or 3am, and don't remember what kept you busy the whole day? Like hours seem to be wheeling off so fast, you hardly notice the day wrap up and shut down.

For the past few days, I seem busy doing what I can't even remember I was doing. Days seem to just pass me by like that. Moments are getting more and more unremarkable. Dry. Silent. Empty. Like scenes of a movie that really don't have anything to do with the plot. They just go away... not leaving any mark. They have become indifferent. Like robots.

Days fly so fast that it's become impossible to leave even the tiniest imprint. You know how that feels?
It feels like life is happening somewhere else.

I've been so restless. I feel the need to express. To sort things out. To find my way through all these unnecessary bustle. I need to write. But each time I attempt to write, I lose it. I lose the drive. Like a car engine that won't start. 

You twist the ignition, hear a loud "brrooom". And then what happens? The sound faints and vanishes just like that. It seems like the mere thought of writing is intimidating already. I cannot move inside my head. My thoughts are paralyzed.

What is going on with me?

I look at my old journal entries, read through them. And I get jealous of that kid, that effortless storyteller. Always in tune with her thoughts. Always in control of them, how to make them and convey them. Always has the means, the time and space, to express and create. I really miss that person.

Back in high school, I really wrote a lot and kept a compilation of my output. I had an active blog and a DevArt. Almost everyday, I wrote. I was so good at finding so many special things in just one day and then, I write about them right away. I kept a notepad with me whenever, where I put my poems, and proses, my couplets and undone stanzas.

I was really breathing back then. Now? I'm only learning to breathe.

Time is changing gears so fast, and I'm missing gears a lot. I'm a car engine that don't start. And my thoughts are on coma. Soon, someday soon, life will be happening not somewhere else, but inside of me. Soon, life will come back. Soon I know, are unempty days. And soon, are a boom of written stories. Soon,

I am coming home.