Can't you tell?

I never write anymore. This empty blog is proof. But it's not just the blog; its the little black commonplace book, the idea scrawls that used to float around my room, the big red journal of everything. I no longer get the clean air of wishful thinking and enlightenment residue. The routine was: open to a random page, write something of the nothings, close book, find that paragraph again during a subway ride and cry a little bit.I used to be able to produce these tiny scribbles at wee hours snuggled in my duvet. That was bliss and comfort. Nothing else runs through my mind besides what's for homework. Nothing else. I no longer think, I no longer write, I no longer feel that I am.