To crack its weary spine.

New pages of the book pedantically postponed in lieu of imperfect posts. The words have lost their luster, the rhymes not flowing forth as they once were. My pen, they might say, has all but run dry. Why? My life is becoming rote, normal, and less something from a picaroon romance. And I, stuck mourning the loss of my unexpected, half tempted to jump in another blender just to throw the stray pages once again in the air. I once found beauty in happiness, and then forced to find the beauty in sadness... but this uncomfortably numb feeling is nothing but ugly gray. Or maybe, just maybe, the only problem is acclimating to my first full week of work in the better part of a year.