Blank Mind Syndrome

I love writing, yet it seems so impossible to find something worthy of the time it takes to write. Sometimes. I want to find my muse, my creative flow, my inspiration, my goddamn epiphany! I am empty of any substance, left only with decaying shells of what ifs, might haves and could have beens. I could quote the whole The Wretched song like that, for that is how I feel whenever I stare at a blank sheet of paper and can't think of any way to improve it. This life is stale. I have been having weird dreams lately, which I remember almost clearly, at least more than most of the dreams I've had in my life. They seem to bring me back in the past, as if I've left something of mine there and it's reaching out to me, wants me to go get it. Last night was particularly depressing. I dreamt of home. Home. Where I was born and raised. I dreamt it was destroyed, replaced by a hebertisme park. What does that tell me of me? I was crying in my dream, my soul was longing for something that can no longer be and I could only wake up on the verge of tears in the arms of my lover. I do not regret the choices I've made for they've led me to where I am, and I would want to be nowhere else. But I have lost something along the way. Something important which I've forgotten and now miss as surely as if it were a limb.