May 3rd 1998: Composition

It’s getting hard these days, the writing. I’ve found recently that I am unable to find the motivation for it. It seems that I have lost my ability for it. Last night I sat down at my desk for nearly an hour trying to put pen to paper but all that came out was incoherent babbling.

I just sat at first, whatever it was I was jotting down could hardly be considered language and after that hour all I had was basically a blank page. I guess what it is they say about me in school is true I am the great procrastinator.

Also I think this methadone is affecting my brain. I mentioned before how phony sobriety has left me empty. But more so than that I find that I just don’t care. I don’t care to write how I used to and even when I try all that comes out is drivel that clearly shows this cavernous void in the pit of my stomach.

It’s either that I don’t care or maybe it is as I had once feared and my consumption of drugs over these years has begun to rot my brain. I remember when I was 15 I was able to spurt out flowing prose as if at will. Now I feel like I couldn’t put together a coherent sentence to save my life.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just too self conscious, I never just write, I always try to make it funny, witty or have some grand scheme about life conveyed through my words. Maybe that’s just it then, my brain is fine I just need to work on my conscience.