I find myself writing the same things. The same anguishy rants and the same teenage-y drivel.
My mind has been deadened by worry and stress, the creativity stoppered until even my own muse is gone, crippled with lack of imagination, perverted by twisted fantasy.
I find myself wishing for the innocence, wishing for the joy I once found in writing before reality became real, before living became hard.
No happiness can be found in childhood past-times, the willingness to forget overwhelmed with the need to remember. As I crave the feel of another in no childish manner anymore.