A long time has passed since I last wrote anything. Anything important. Profound. Consequential. Or at least honest. What happened to me? Somewhere along the way I lost the key to that private place upon the pages, between the lines. My own secret garden. The place where I run away to finally be free, escape the dreary and overbearing reality is there no more. I lost the key, dropped it somewhere and when I realized it, it was too late to turn around.

How did I get here? Have I been too busy living life that I have no time to observe it? Have I been too lazy and narcissistic to appreciate the beauty that simple, little things have to offer? Have I been intimidated by the idea that writing about my fears, insecurities, and problems would bring them to life and give them an actual form? Have I forgotten my promise to always be true to myself and others, to say things as they are no matter how ridiculous, how painful, or how honest? Have I finally become the very thing that I abhor?

Somewhere along the way, it was not only the key that I lost. I also lost myself.


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