Maybe it's writer's block.
Not that I could ever be considered an actual writer, but at the present moment, I am drained of all creative juices and of all forms of inspirations. Writing compositions, movie reviews or essays proves to be excessively, exhaustingly draining. The words don't flow out, they don't trickle down my fingers into the keys of my laptop anymore. Nowadays, I have to wring it all out, and all I can squeeze out are paltry, mediocre words of a ten year old.
I don't know what's happening to me. For once, I find my interest in writing is waning. Maybe I'll stop. It's not like anyone ever reads anything I write anyway.
But I think I know that I can never, willingly stop writing. My best months are November and December, when horrendous school finally stops and when I finally get free days to myself, twenty four hours of sleeping, eating and writing. It helps a lot that I'm going back to New Zealand in December. When I came back from there last year, I finished a whole book.
I can't describe what New Zealand means to me. It's where my imagination flows, where the cogs of my brain start to work again. It could be the wonderful pure air; dewy morning air as I step out onto the chilly balcony. Or the endless roads and plains, long roads that disappear into the horizon, with plains of yellow grass surrounding it. But I think it's the mountains. Whether it's snow-capped, jungle-strewn or completely barren, you can see mountains from anywhere in any city. And as we drive past, on those endless roads, through the foggy, misted windows, I stare through at those mountains, those wonders of earth and rock, things of such beauty that words seem to fail me.
View of some mountains when we took a tiny airplane to go see some waterfalls.
A river that we stopped by on our way to Queenstown.
Queenstown, a beautiful city.
Snow-capped mountains of Mt Cook.