There's a chill in the air - a very familiar chill. The flame of summer is slowly burning out, and with it the experiences that will fade into memory. Many will be cherished memories, while others will fall into the black pit of regret, ever yearning to be forgotten.
I would like to say that it has been a very productive summer full of practicing on my creativity and character-building. But I can not. It feels like my creativity decided to go on vacation as well and forgot to return. I've written very little with two or three attempts at a novel, a poem or two, some philosophical stuff, and the first scene of a play. On the whole it may sound like quite a bit, but it really isn't. All together it probably adds up to around 10-15 pages of work, but there was plenty of opportunity to do more, I just couldn't spark my imagination with enough inspiration.
I'd love to add more to this post, but a headache prevents me from doing so. To be continued.
Ashes to Ashes
