I miss writing. I am incomplete these days. I am a fragment, an unfinished sentence. I am everything that I don’t want to be.
Last year he told us to write about childhood memories that we had long abandoned. We were asked to recall those vague memories and fill in the blanks. He wanted us to reflect and analyze and interpret.
No one is telling me to do anything these days. No one is asking me to tell my story or share a poem. No one asks and I am not finding any stories. It seems as though I’ve told everything.
Give me something to write about. Give me a prompt. Ask me a question and I’ll answer it. I don’t like feeling incomplete. I have to write.