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I used to draw and paint and sculpt and write. I wrote a lot. I wrote decently. When he walked out of my world, he turned the light out on my creativity as he closed the door behind him.

Now everything I write, everything I paint, everything I draw becomes him. I can no longer create male characters, they all become versions of him. My art has rebelled against me; I can no longer create, I no longer want to.

He was my muse, my kindling, my companion and there will always be a gaping wound in my existence without him. I feel all of this for someone who no longer feels these things for me.

I cannot draw.

I cannot paint.

I cannot write.

I cannot create.

Because art in absence of light is just darkness and only fears like pain, loneliness and regret thrive in the dark.

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