If there ever was

Sometimes I think I should just write about anything. That something might be better than all this nothing. Like how right now I feel empty. A heavy hammer with no nails to hit. My feelings in bulk stored away on an empty shelf. So certain I’d never run out.

For so long the words wrote themselves, but I guess they grew tired and walked away. The ink fades and I’m left with little more than slips of yellowed paper. Driven by a cold wind to places I would otherwise never go. I think it should be obvious, how I feel, but I forget there are no more observers. Life just a twisting trail that leads between then and now.

There’s no destination anymore. I keep walking, but I travel just as far standing still.