Art trouble

It's been so long since I've drawn something really good.

My well of inspiration has been dry for months.

I don't know if I'm just forcing myself to make in my niche not because I love it but because it's what I've become. 

It used to come so natural to me, works made of love and joy and fun. 

But that beauty doesn't come to me any more. 

I'm restricted and while I still love drawing, the style I've worked so hard to create just feels like it has slipped from my hand. 

I once made works which implied whole worlds outside of them, like looking into the screenshot of an odd film.

My works moved on their own, greases with implication and wonder, but my muse has left me.

My hands have become shallow, my works no longer dive as deep as they once did.

I still love to draw, but I've become a coward and a fraud. It doesn't come as naturally as it once did.

I would pity myself but I deserve what has happened. I don't know what I did but I did it, and for that I will suffer.

I don't know what to do or where to go. I'm at the fork of a dirt road, the rain pours heavy on vehicle, the cold air blowing in, bringing along the smell of the wet grass, the field which touches the horizon.

 I'm cold.