I’ve forgotten how to write.

I’m just throwing together sentences using big words to express psuedo-emotions; feelings that were once there but now fabricate by the clicking keys of a run down shitty laptop in a run down shitty university. You don’t know what it feels  like to have that sentiment escape from you, to have every bit of talent you once took pride in, disintegrate into pretension, until all that’s left is some half-assed attempts that maybe, just possibly, may result in something to make another state writing competition judge crack a grin.

It’s not even about that anymore. I don’t want to write in exchange for 1/500th of a ream of Staples paper, it cost me more to write it anyways. More time and effort, and even paper bills than your meager photocopy of a congratulations. A few cents, really, and perhaps a couple more in ink fees. Libraries charge ten cents a print, is that the value of my presumptuous bubble of hot air to you? Some useless bubble of hot air that swallowed everything I once knew about writing, in exchange for a library photocopy, I hope you’re happy now, not that you know it’s your fault; you were simply rewarding me. A fair barter, really, but through cynically tinted goggles, everything is a commodity and all I seek in life are the merits.

So then we have a fair exchange. Passion for paper for a fifth of the paper in exchange. Occupy writing competitions.


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