Why do we stop writing?

Do we just give in to comfort at some point,

becoming hollowed out shells,

forgotten half-squeezed oranges 

forever waiting the turn of the seasons

and that soft brush on the stained wood

signalling the muse’s return.

I read somewhere that when we write,

we tell death: not today…

Perhaps coming of age means just that,

asking yourself if you feel inspired,

elevated by your all-engulfing surroundings,

and after all the distractions and shades of life that take up one’s whole existence,

you ask yourself: will I write?

Not today, you tell your other self,

as there is always tomorrow…

Perhaps, at some point in a (writer’s) life,

we learn to accept death, and the nihilist perception of life’s pointlessness,

losing with it the idea of why we used to it in the first place altogether…

Perhaps we stop writing once that much-needed melancholy and

relentless self-reflection goes away, and we are forever cured of that itch.

Perhaps that’s where the line of greatness lies,

The great border of conformance

that shall never be fully accepted for the sake of

true art…

Who knows, time will tell;

until then, back on the road to find out!