April 13, 2013

Looking In The Bowl

I've been creatively constipated for the last few weeks. Has it been months? The words just don't come. I can feel them building up, a heavy clog, slow moving. Leaden. Damned. Congealed with broken thoughts, unraveling projects and empty promises. This might be what depression feels like- a yearning glance at the light. From the darkness.

The inexplicable part is that everything has been perfect lately. I couldn't be happier. Quality time with my family, relaxing days and open nights. A light mind, empty of stresses.  Every time I sit on the pot, the words dry up and disappear. Tomorrow night, I will write the post about surfing. I will get back to my book this weekend. I'll scratch out a poem just after....

Writing seems to have lost meaning. What is the point? I haven't the energy to spend with the words much less the thoughts, or these paper images dancing in my mind before I sleep. They trickle out as Tweets, a lackluster storm. Leaving me damp, but not satisfied. I lie to myself, suggesting that I need merlot and a smoky room, fully aware that this only made it worse.

This is not for you. Not for me either. This isn't the plain girl declaring she is ugly to be told she is pretty. This is just me sitting and pushing and working through a clog.

Looking in the bowl and hoping to see any little turd that might float to the top. Letting me know that we can get back to the business writing.

cc licensed ( BY NC SA ) flickr photo shared by catheroo (cat edens)

Minutes later, I saw this. It helped a lot. 

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