I seriously hate this melancholy feeling I occasionally get. Like a hunger inside that is never satisfied no matter how much I eat. I could sit here for hours alone staring at a blank page, wanting desperately to write myself better. To read an assortment of letters written in ink I’ve somehow managed to vomit out, and finally understand where this feeling of emptiness came from and how I can make it go away. Two days ago I was content with life and now all of a sudden I have no inspiration, no drive to do anything. Perhaps it’s just the weather; perhaps it’s something else completely.