I once had a small room with dark drapes, an overstuffed chair, and bookshelves filled with classics. I spent most of my time in that room typing on a keyboard that had most of the caps missing from its keys. I wrote everyday, often until the wee hours of the morning. I filled my screen with words that spoke to a world of writers. The rest of my time was spent taking walks. I squeezed in a few hours of work five days a week, but I was always thinking about that blank screen that waited for me on that old computer in that dark room.

Then suddenly it all came to an end. I deleted everything.

I deleted myself in one keystroke. In an instant, I lost connections I cherished. I needed to reconnect to the world around me. I needed to wake up from the dream, so I closed my eyes and … click.

It’s taken me years to regain the ability to write.

I don’t have that dark, little room anymore, nor the chair. Not even the bookshelf survived. The computer sure didn’t.

But here I am now, typing on a new keyboard in a big, well-lit room, filled with anxiety for no reason other than the fear that the real writer in me is dead. New books are mixed with the old ones, all of which fill new bookshelves. Some books are still unread because the word junkie in me can’t help but purchase books I don’t have make time to read. How many books have I downloaded to my Kindle in the last two weeks? Four maybe. I’ve started reading all of them, and I’ll probably never finish them.

One day I’ll regret not having chased down an expertise. I’d settle for just one at this point, but I yearn for mastery in everything. A master of nothing is what I am, and only a shadow of a dream remains for one thing that I was once good at.

This keyboard has no memory of how my fingers once danced. I have nothing to show for that time in my life but worn pages in a few old books. The new books have witnessed nothing, not even a gleam in my eye.

I feel ill.