Is it a bad thing?
I no longer dream of my stories. No more thoughts of flying on birds and falling through forests.
I'm dreaming of real people. Hard, concrete places. Walls.
I no longer find inspiration barrelling into me like a wall of wind and frost when I open the windows.
And the worst thing is, I don't need it anymore.
I don't make time. I'm not trying. Life is pulling me in, and I'm letting it.
My soul does not cry out against this loss.
And I suppose this is what returning to reality feels like.
It's not like losing your voice; it's more like slowly forgetting the lyrics.
