I’m gonna die in a place that don’t know my name.

Writing atrophy seems to be an appropriate description of what my mind has undertaken in present times. A seeming degradation of ability with a lapse of creativity have vexed me terribly. I am currently taking that as a charge to renew what I used to have, assuming I have anything to start from.

Mathematics has been my only language in the past while. Flexing the muscles of differentiation and linear algebra became the daily routine, while forgetting to even stretch out literary creativity. Number crunches took the place of poetry, integrals enveloped short stories and matrices swallowed novels. This has left a massive deficit in my mind, a hole that has grown to proportions beyond the quantification of the systems of communication in the mathematical lingo.

The title was chosen very specifically, as it pertains to the topic of discussion to the utmost. If my writing ability were to whither entirely, I would not know what to call it anymore. The poor wretch would die in a place which could not name it if it wanted to. I am choosing consciously to intervene and, with high hopes, resuscitate this close friend of expression.

Wish me luck, for as with any muscle regaining use or bloodflow, it may be done with great pains.