Uninspired

I'm sitting on eight different drafts, none of which I can seem to finish. I know it's because of my medication– my overpriced daily regimen of pharmaceutical pseudo-happiness, my means to cope with reality, my medicinal crutch. But at what cost.

While it's great that I can get through these nights without wanting to put a bullet through my head like I did a few years ago, I miss how emotionally charged I was before, no matter how negative. People saw it as hate; I saw it as being passionate. And without passion, there isn't any purpose now, is there?

I will cross all of these out before the month ends.

For Lyra
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The Great Revelation of 2011
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Shallow
Natalia, Part I
Natalia, Part II
Recovery