I've lost it, my knack for writing. It's gone, somewhere among discarded socks and lost moments, underneath my bed in the furthest right corner (next to my sanity). It's unlikely that I'll find it for a while yet, my fingers busying themselves with other things. Typically that would consist of either A) drawing a picture, or B) rolling a joint. B most likely previous to A. Yet even when I want to be inspired to write, and think that a good dose of B's entailings are a perfect fit... nothing. A blank page. 
Countless times I've found myself staring up at that small, insignificant ever-blinking line, and it ceaselessly begs me to end its blinking tyrant...I cannot. I'm not the solution.
This blinking line, it's not the solution either.
I find my days, my days have been so grey and dismal, and I've found myself lost within them. Why, I cannot say, but the light that found its way to me on every other occasion... Well, for the first time, I can rarely and barely find it. It's not even there... And why, I wonder, why? Why is this how it is right now, and why is everyone caught up in it? Why do they not notice that they are... or worse yet, why am I the only one who does? Answers. I need answers to questions that can never be answered, yet I find that I'll never know what questions I really need to ask.
Suppression. 
Days gone grey because of suppression of blackness. It's our own brains... It's my own brain. It's doing this to me, and I know it is. The worst part, I find, is that I'm in complete control of every aspect of my life, but have nothing to show for it. No ways of really proving it to myself, because I left every aspect of my life control me. 
We're all dying, some of us just feel it more.