I used to write like she did. My thoughts would twist and turn, and come forth in beautiful tangles of threads, each of different colours. Colours that are hard to find on Microsoft Paint. Maybe on Adobe Illustrator, you'll find them. My mind would stray to the stars, skip through galaxies, plummet back to earth and bounce across continents. It would plop into an ocean and sink deep, complacently watching every movement in the dark depths for eons. Simultaneously it would be in another dimension, the dimension of everyday that spews up a gurgling lava flow of observations. Each with their own stories and jigsaw puzzle shaped situations. I'd play with words, and eat them, and sleep with them, and rape them, and put them on a pedestal, and inject them with each other, and that would leave me high.

What changed?

Maybe if I use this font it'll come back to me? Maybe if I have a different canvas instead of this computer screen to transmit my thought s to? Maybe my synapses are connected to my fingers which don't feel the same way about the keyboard as they did about my pencils. Maybe this corporate world has fizzled out my soul.

I used to blog before. Jitterbug, I used to call myself. It meant nothing. I wrote my heart out and showed it to someone I trusted. Your sentences are too long and winding. Your tone is so sad, you lament, unlike the happy person you are otherwise. What you read won't make google like you any more, you never even title your posts sometimes.

But friend, I think now, that was more me than I'll ever be. Writing for me was a bridge from my heart to the world, and you put some nasty stink bombs on it. I didn't care if the world saw me, I didn't care if I made money out of it, I didn't care what I came across. It was the one place that I could be me, in this world where we need to have a facebook account to stay a part of the clan; or have the smallest cellphone so it gives the right image to the job title scribbled on our visiting card, where we precariously balance our lives on stilletos and drive SUVs to look down from our high horses. It was home.

I used to write like she did. My words contoured around corners, and tapered at the end. They lingered and they weighed you down. They danced sometimes, and paragraphs looked like pictures. They were my words, all mine, with their little dots and corners and slants.