Rust is settling in, making itself comfortable; moving in with it is a feeling of profound laziness, an almost impossibly never-ending prime time slot with sloth and a vestigial sense of loss.
Yes, the urges are still there, but there is no motivation. You try writing but you end up staring at the stark white screen instead, hypnotized with the cursor’s never ending blinking frenzy.
And I’m afraid of this newer, lackadaisical version of me.
For there is one more tenant who has come to set up shop with rust: nostalgia for all the things one loves to do and yet finds oneself unable to do them.