bloated.

I used to devour words. Pages and pages of them, weaved into capitivating tales.

But now, something has happened.

I can no longer devour stories as I once did.

It is as if I am bloated with dopamine- so bloated that there is room for nothing else.

It is a feeling of being full but not one of being content.

Even my pen writes with rotten ink.

My words are a glimmer of what I once knew, mindless mutterings from a mad man grasping at what he has lost.

Half of my heart has been wedded to a devil.

A devil that dances in my hands and dazzles my eyes, leaving me full, yet empty at the end of the day.

And in the end I am frightened.

What if, despite all my ideas and intentions, I am no different from a machine regurgitating junk?

What if, what if, what if.

Eventually, I will move on from my what ifs.