I am inspired by my lack of inspiration. But I'm sick of writing these same old stories. I could be suffering from artistic stresses, but more than likely I'm suffering from reality. I don't feel oppressed by culture, rather suffocated by lack there of. It is time like these where I can imagine an inspirational piece of triumph or romance. But as the words awkwardly stumble into place and my thoughts run dry, I frantically erase only to leave my self with a crinkled, torn up, smudged piece of paper.