I've been sleeping later and later recently, watching back to back episodes of the OC, reading and hearing the echo of my own memories in the dead of the night (or morning more like).
so yesterday, after completing episode 20 of the OC, I read my old archives and it conjured up a longing for my old friend: writing.
I'd almost forgotten how much I loved to write, so much so I'd really forgotten how to write.

because I'd always treasured the way writing gave me release, words used to come easily.
but the past few months seemed to run by a filter; a time where I write for another purpose, and a time where putting certain thoughts into tangible words would seem unnecessary simply because I think it is, even if I want to.

perhaps, I miss that part of me.
I miss that part of me that was in tune with how I felt and what I loved.
because even though writing doesn't change a single thing, I have something to turn to.

my usual security blankets have been removed.
maybe I've come to this realisation ages ago and not merely today.
maybe this realisation comes and goes.
maybe it hits me today because I'd been living in denial and trying desperately to believe that it still exists.
maybe I've been watching too much OC.
and maybe it's this loneliness and isolation from all that was once familiar that makes me feel naked and vulnerable.

and you know, I've come to realise it's very easy to tell people you miss them, but when it is someone you really miss, the words simply don't come.