Can I even write anymore?

The question sounds ridiculous, I know. How could something I’ve spent over half-a-decade pouring my life into vanish into thin air? How can a talent that I’ve honed and improved upon vanish without a trace or head injury?

It’s weird for these words to evade me. It’s weird that the thoughts inside my head can’t be transcribed onto paper. It’s weird that this relentless passion of mine could disappear down the drain after a week of too much busyness to make time for one of my greatest loves.

Right?

Someone please tell me I’m right in saying that the impossible is impossible. Please tell me I’m right in claiming that my writing isn’t disappearing down the drain and that the feelings of failure sweeping in are just that– just feelings, and when I take a break from the ever-draining tides of school everything will be okay now that the kryptonite is gone.

Because I can’t live with the fear of the playful dance of words disappearing from my brain. I can’t live with the idea of it all going to waste.