There was a time when word vomit was a pleasure and literary seizures were simply seizures that tend to sparkle and therapy my thoughts. But unfortunately, the same stories are the same ones that nailed me to where I have been right from the start. This is evidenced by my previous posts where point upon point of points already pointed are once again pointed. And I'm starting to tire of this repetitiveness.
Maybe it is the fear of playing the same songs over and over again. I've once read that there are two kinds of writers: those that tell the story in segmented intervals, and those that tell the story over and over again. It is the thought that maybe I've already exhausted everything that I could write of. I have immortalized him in my musings and maybe I have used him to propel my desire to write.
I abhor writing about him. Yet I'm still writing about him despite the fact that there's really nothing to write about anymore. These carcasses of a time long gone have decomposed and what's left are nothing but tips of icebergs that I'm still melting to secrete words that have done nothing to satiate the hunger for writing.
If only it was easy for me to pluck stories from the meadows. Or release paper planes to oblivion.