It happens. Not often. But, I do suffer from it.
The dreaded, 'writer's block.' It hits like a ton of bricks and turns me into a mundane everyday person. No gossamer threads of stories weave webs of intrigue in my head. I see no patterns, observe no emotion and the sky refuses to melt me with it's vast-heartedness.
I become, mud. I become, ash. I become everyday.
...And I hate being numb. It makes me lose my appetite and even puts me off reading.
It makes me feel tired. It makes me feel unloved. It leaves me with massive headaches and I often end up spending more than I earn - seeking solace in retail therapy.
I guess, some may call it depression. Others may liken it to the loss of a loved one.
I guess, they would be right.
It is bleak. Often very lonely. No characters pulling me by my hands and taking me headlong into a strange world. I feel bored.
I crave ice creams and Chinese takeaway.
I feel heavy and even tired. All sparkles stolen from my eyes.
So, I had to write how I feel when I cannot write.
I had to put it to words.
I had to think in written sentences - just to check if I can still string and weave magic from 26 letters of the English alphabet.
I took refuge in photography.
I wrote some half-hearted poetry but, that was not writing.
It is not really the magic my heart craves.
Poetry is feeling and it was sad. Well, mostly.
I want a happy outlet.
I cannot meditate. My mind is full.
Music gives me headache.
So, I wrote this post, hoping for catharsis.
...And wishing - this too shall pass.