nothing left to say

This writing space, once a refuge for wayward thoughts, a comforting arena to explore and ponder, feels more akin to sitting at a too-small desk in my old elementary class. Tight. ill-fitting. Have I outgrown the need to share? To write?

How do you keep writing when nothing changes.

I fear I have nothing left to say.

My old writing companion lost to time and space. Without our back-and-forth, I'm writing to no one.

Is drifting apart in slow motion worse than all at once?