The beauty of the unkown

I’m not myself when I’m writing yet I’m lost when I do.

I know myself and the reasons I reason with, nevertheless I’m yet to find myself as a writer.

My muse was life and now seems to be something even more ethereal.

The words used to pour out of my fingers like a waterfall when I knew nothing of all this called content creation. Now everything seems to need a purpose. Oh, when it was nothing but inspiration and love for the art.

Not worrying about being read, no editing to improve readability nor understanding; nothing but your thoughts creating lyrics in digital paper.

The good old times.

Yet here I am. Editing this for readability and comprehension …