"Maybe I'm a ghost."

My will to write has been becoming smaller as these recent days haul on. I don't have things to write about. Rather, I'm more interested in living through all these moments than passing the time to capture them. It's true when said, "As you look to the past you miss the now and future." I'm sort of talking to myself here because I'm not being very specific and none of you who read this will really understand what I'm referring to. That's usually how I write, in a mysterious vague code. I'm not secretive, I don't just easily give away things information to people that don't try to figure it out themselves. Ask me anything and I'll answer bluntly. Instead of writing, lately I've been reading through all I've been writing within the past year. I'm almost gifted in self awareness as I read about myself. Things I already knew, however they're laid out in bold print to my face. It's a cold embrace to take in knowing who you are. It's not anything to do with not being who you want to be or anything of the sort. The true cause of this comforting vibe is having yourself finally understood. Good, bad or indifferent, you finally have yourself there, on paper, with everything described. Again, this is vague. These are more of feelings than thoughts and thus there are no words for any of this. Lately I've been more than tired. I do my bidding in dreams. There's so many awkward moments that almost seem that time itself is embarrassed. That things don't belong in this reality when they happen. Almost as if to say, "Oops, was that noticable?" Look again, I'm vague. Even to myself. I can't keep myself to continue typing as I'm distracted listening to the sound of key strokes swell in volume, then diminish in unison. As I live through this living writer's block, the ending will bring me to some sort of inspiration for a horror tale, that of which I'm sure.