I seem to have lost my knack.

I couldn’t even gather the emotions that once haunted the corridors of my mind.

I came across an article once, about the orientation of people. They can either be past-, present- or future-oriented. I definitely know I’m a past-oriented person.

And yet… those memories lay buried in a grave, somewhere.

Must be my defense mechanism, activating automatically.

People ask me why my style of writing is too… sad? melancholic?

Perhaps it is because of my orientation, my inclination and my influence.

I have happier poems. happier essais. happier thoughts. One of these days, I guess. But I revel better in the melancholia of it all.

It’s the conundrum of my personality.


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