'Tis true.

Pain is my creativity's drive.

I blamed my lack of creativity on Journalism which isn't entirely untrue, but is, I've realized, definitely not entirely true.

I can't write anything because I have been living a robotic and slightly mundane life for the past 6 months. I'm not terribly sad, and I'm not ecstatically happy. I just am. I have happier days and I have sadder days, but nothing overwhelming. I blame part of my robotic ways on Journalism because, conversationally, reporting is an entirely different stand alone social skill that makes any other emotion and social skill drier and duller the more journalistic one becomes.

Aside from a couple memories here and there, I feel like I haven't been living. Nothing really effects me. And I don't mean that it in a way that says I'm some strong confident woman. I mean that I'm emotionally dead with the exception of my constant self doubt and stress about how capable I am.

Because of all this, I've had nothing to write about--nothing to make me want catharsis or even simple contemplation. I thought it was a good time in life that I was finally stable and okay with everything and not letting anything drive my hopes up or drive me down into a deep dark hole. But now that I have fallen into an old state, I realize that where I was, although good in the sense that I would prefer to feel nothing than what I'm feeling right now, it was a dry spell--one in which Dana is simply nothing and apathetic.

To be honest, I wish I was still as apathetic as I have been for the past 6 months. But alas, I've reverted to a previous state of mind.

All my terrible experiences and the way people have treated me in the past has, I'm starting to believe, made me incapable of being close with someone. The more I think about it the more impossible I think it all is. The idea of me meeting someone and letting myself be close with him and having him be someone I can actually be with--it's just--fuck, I don't understand how it would ever happen.

It's all just an entirely baffling, sick and twisted, darkly humorous idea.
Being robotic and empty is so much easier than knowing you actually have a heart--and a tattered one at that.