I’ve been trying to close this chapter of my life

for too long

and I can’t finish it

I’m stuck in the boring part

and I can’t skip ahead

Every waking moment is spent thinking about the moment after that

it’s impossible to write, when there is no life to write about

the book never ends

it’s just a bunch of blank pages

and I don’t believe I can write them alone

What is this book, anyway?

It used to be the chapters were planned out

now there is no plan

there is no writer

he doesn’t seem to have enough imagination

to come up with anything real

the plot is dead

the mind wanders

there is nothing to be read

at the end of life.