Every Day

I come up with something new to write about every day. And then I decide it isn't worth it, or I'm too tired, or I get caught up in something else. I don't even wonder why I have such a hard time writing anymore. I no longer question why there's a hole, a longing, in me that can only be filled with the written word; why my "soul" feels emptier and my life seems heavier. I know why. I know that I don't take the time to nourish what kept me alive for most of my life. I know that I've let responsibilities to others come first. I've let things I don't even really like come first. I've tossed writing aside and told myself that it'll always be there; I'll always be able to come back to it. It'll never leave me. So, instead, I leave it. I leave and I let myself get a little bit further away every day.