slow fade...

Relying on the past to create something new. Trying to restart the writer inside is proving somewhat difficult. Growing a little older and more colder on the inside creates a wall that isn't easily broken. I hinder myself from letting loose that which is inside. Made to feel less than, belittled with a slyness of sorts and now slowly I learn that enough is enough. Seems that going in circles is the norm for me at this stage in life. Seems the heart and mind haven't used their voice or have spoken in so long they almost seem alien to each other, even to me. Having to concentrate on every little step or reaction leaves me no time to enjoy the passing scenery and suddenly it's dark and color has fled on the outside. How blind am I at this point?