I miss my pen and paper

When I was a kid I used to sit outside with a pad a paper. I used to make these wonderful drawings and write all sorts of stuff, my thoughts about life, about death, about love, about pain, about the world... The list goes on and on and on.

I used to write about everything, much like I wish I could do now.
I was thinking about why I can't do that anymore, write little thoughts or crappy little poems. I can only think of a few reasons...

First and foremost: the internet. That's right, I am blaming the internet for my loss of innocence and my shortcomings as a writer. When I really discovered the internet, it opened my eyes to the world; this mystical place that up until then had only existed in books and in my imagination. It made me see that the world is a huge and beautiful and terrifying and cruel and tragic place. Which leads me to the second reason.

That's the moment I lost my innocence. I'm not going to pretend I've lead a sheltered life in any sort of way. Like everyone else, I've seen things that most human beings should never see (that's what makes us human). But the internet made me realize that my little problems (the loss of a friend, love lost, frustration at the little things) didn't matter as such. These problems were minuscule and the world was gigantic.

So from that day forth:
I dropped my pen and paper on my desk and traded them for a keyboard and a screen.
I stopped writing prose about undying love and started typing about dying people.
I stopped write verses about women and started typing about Women's Rights.
I stopped writing about the meaning of life and starting typing about what it means to live.
I stopped writing about being punished in school for not speaking enough and started typing about being imprisoned for speaking too much.

In short, once my eyes opened there was no turning back, no pretending the world wasn't there, no more thinking that the world revolved around me, no more localized anger. No, that would be too easy... Now my world has no limits and my frustration is global; I am still writing but it no longer rhymes; it's not pretty and it's far from perfect but it's what I do.

But I must admit that sometimes, on a rainy Thursday when I'm lacking sleep I really miss the simplicity of a pen and paper.

Muchacho Enfermo