Emptiness

The pounding emptiness is buried in my heart, and the sun never really came up today. Normally I'd be disappointed or something, but today I just... nothing. But I prefer it this way, it's better than how I usually am, feeling a lot of negative stuff. This emptiness is in its contrast a sombre calm, like a cold, misty street in a ghost town. Thinking back to the novel I will someday actually write. Well, one of them, I have two on going. I have some sort of writer's block now. But even still, I keep visiting the places I've created for this one story, the one taking place in an imaginary ghost town somewhere in England. Sort of an alternate reality thing.

Picturing the empty streets, the thick fog, the old tarnished buildings that had become grey over time. Muddy with dust and rain. It's a calm town, and there are no actual ghosts in it. Or well, not any creepy ones at least. Just this one ghost, but she's nothing like one. I imagine myself as the main character, 37 year old Kian, standing in the window to his apartment, wearing only a bath robe over a pyjamas in the early morning breeze. He's a little like me, or rather how I feel like I am.

So I spend more time thinking about the story than actually writing about it. I want to write, but every time I open up the document and put my hands on the keyboard I just freeze up. Where do I start? Which scene should I write at? Where was I the last time? Should I read it through again? I just can't write, I'm unsynchronised. So I just stare out the window, pretending that I am Kian.