these words are my heart and soul.

I feel like this. As if I couldn't say a word, although I know I've got plenty of things to cry out loud. I can't write anymore, or I don't know if I can because I can't start. I used to write so much, so different kinds of stories and I used to enjoy reading them afterwards - I never thought I was extraordinarily good or anything, I just liked the fact that I finally completed something by myself. 


Have they eaten my imagination? Have they taken away motivation? Who do they think they are? 


I'm not crying because I miss the life I used to have couple of years ago, because that's not the case. I'm not crying because I feel that my mouth is forced to be shut and I can't express my thoughts the way I want to. I'm crying because I LOVE WRITING. It used to be my thing. Remember when you had your thing. Those things have breaks, they shatter and they kill you inside, but usually they find their way back home again. But I've missed my thing so long time ago, I'm getting a bit desperate. Don't ask me to shut up and walk away. I have opinions, too. 


Many of those don't know them, but they exist. Just like your thoughts, your ideas and your point of views exist, my opinions are there and they are very much alive. Except that they don't reveal themselves as I wish. I have this Document1 open in my Microsoft Office Word, but there's not a single word of text written. What if this is what I really want to do, and I can't because they forced me to do something else instead? Is this the compromise people always talk about? 


Well. Let me say. I don't like compromises then. 


Otherwise, we're doing good: me and my loved ones. And since sun is shining, I suppose angels are doing good, too. It makes me happy to see them smiling every now and then.